'I can't recall the date Eva turned into stone. As a marble statue of associate tyranny frozen in a tireless and unchanging pose, or to read the epitah on her tomb, for her body underneath or our relation's demise. The body not the person who has left the world to reside inside my head. The bullet hole, the 'eighth orifice' meant for my head was staged. And the rumour that we fled to Argentina together, History wants to pardon us, for us to live until a ripe old age, for our German tragic drama to sound like an American fairy tale, of this Teutonic history to Walt Disney myth, like how I turned the world into a theatre of war. On the date of her departure, I, the living dead, could only be mute and inert, sadly for one who was once feared and respected for his voice and gesture.' - Ernst Auer
'Ich kann mich nicht erinnern, das Datum Eva in Stein verwandelt. Wie eine Marmorstatue der Tyrannei in ein unermüdlicher und unveränderlich darstellen, oder die epitah auf ihr Grab zu lesen, denn ihr Körper unter oder unsere Beziehung Ableben eingefroren. Der Körper nicht derjenige, der die Welt verlassen hat, um in meinem Kopf befinden. Das Einschussloch war der achte Öffnung "für meinen Kopf gemeint inszeniert. Und das Gerücht, dass wir nach Argentinien floh zusammen, will Geschichte uns entschuldigen, für uns bis ins hohe Alter zu leben, für unsere deutschen Trauerspiels wie ein amerikanischer Märchen Sound, dieser teutonischen Geschichte von Walt Disney Mythos, wie, wie ich drehte mich um die Welt in ein Theater. Am Tag ihrer Abreise, konnte ich die lebenden Toten, nur stumm und träge, traurig für jemanden, der einmal gefürchtet und respektiert für seine Stimme und Gestik.'- Ernst Auer
Monday, January 30, 2012
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Petty issue about names - Chien Swee-Teng
Art historian Michael Sullivan said in a conference in Singapore he still insists in using Peking (the old name) instead of Beijing because that how they termed it in English, like how London is Lun Dun in Mandarin. [some in the hall laughed, perhaps to show they know how to appreciate the wit and humour of a British academic.]
If the director Lee Ang is Ang Lee in the West because that is how names are ordered there, then this old historian of Chinese art should be Sullivan Michael or Chaelmic Vanlisul or Leahcim Navillus or Navillus Leahcim.
If the director Lee Ang is Ang Lee in the West because that is how names are ordered there, then this old historian of Chinese art should be Sullivan Michael or Chaelmic Vanlisul or Leahcim Navillus or Navillus Leahcim.
Didactic Chinese Poem - Chien Swee-Teng
1.1
'I love the culture but the party deforms it.'
Kong Lan Jiao Wei
1.1.2
The Culture of Defeat it must be
The Tradition of Servility we are proud to keep
If I have to be colonised to 'retain' my culture
I would rather be a barbarian.
1.2
Cultured but '... it is so sick to see
a Chinese painting teacher spilling
black ink intentionally on the thighs of a young female student and offer to clean it'
Or 'calling her late at night, after ten, saying he needs help at the studio.'
Fatherly figure, brotherly gestures.
2.1
The border,
the places, provinces,
and lines that demarcate.
2.2
Not Chinese but Hong Kongers
Not Chinese but Peranakans
Not Chinese but Taiwanese.
The many Not Chinese but...
2.1.2
Yang says, Low Gek Nam said,
'Lines do not exist in reality,
it is the curve, the turn.'
So lines exist,
due to the limitation of our perception.
2.3
The question of nationality,
the question of race
are false questions.
This should not be a question
if one prefers not to change the surname into last name.
2.3.1
But the language,
to think
about it, as another question,
is not to understand
why it is hard
for this to be written or read in Chinese
'I love the culture but the party deforms it.'
Kong Lan Jiao Wei
1.1.2
The Culture of Defeat it must be
The Tradition of Servility we are proud to keep
If I have to be colonised to 'retain' my culture
I would rather be a barbarian.
1.2
Cultured but '... it is so sick to see
a Chinese painting teacher spilling
black ink intentionally on the thighs of a young female student and offer to clean it'
Or 'calling her late at night, after ten, saying he needs help at the studio.'
Fatherly figure, brotherly gestures.
2.1
The border,
the places, provinces,
and lines that demarcate.
2.2
Not Chinese but Hong Kongers
Not Chinese but Peranakans
Not Chinese but Taiwanese.
The many Not Chinese but...
2.1.2
Yang says, Low Gek Nam said,
'Lines do not exist in reality,
it is the curve, the turn.'
So lines exist,
due to the limitation of our perception.
2.3
The question of nationality,
the question of race
are false questions.
This should not be a question
if one prefers not to change the surname into last name.
2.3.1
But the language,
to think
about it, as another question,
is not to understand
why it is hard
for this to be written or read in Chinese
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
'for a nobody starting with nothing and from nowhere in particular'
Machiavelli was a later discovery, and in my view he went a lot further than
Marx on a number of issues, for example in trying to conceive the conditions and
kinds of political action in its pure form, that is to say at the conceptual level. What
struck me again was the radical manner in which he took into account the
aleatory nature of every conjuncture. In addition, he revealed that what was
needed, if Italian national unity was to be achieved, was for a nobody starting
with nothing and from nowhere in particular, but outside the framework of
an established State, to bring together the fragmented elements of a divided
country, without any preconceived notion of unity which might have been
formulated in terms of existing political concepts (all of which were bad).We
have not yet, I believe, explored all the implications of this piece of political
thinking, the first of its kind and sadly without sequel. - Louis Althusser
Marx on a number of issues, for example in trying to conceive the conditions and
kinds of political action in its pure form, that is to say at the conceptual level. What
struck me again was the radical manner in which he took into account the
aleatory nature of every conjuncture. In addition, he revealed that what was
needed, if Italian national unity was to be achieved, was for a nobody starting
with nothing and from nowhere in particular, but outside the framework of
an established State, to bring together the fragmented elements of a divided
country, without any preconceived notion of unity which might have been
formulated in terms of existing political concepts (all of which were bad).We
have not yet, I believe, explored all the implications of this piece of political
thinking, the first of its kind and sadly without sequel. - Louis Althusser
Academic philosophy cannot tolerate Lenin
Academic philosophy cannot tolerate Lenin (or Marx for the matter) for
two reasons, which are really one and the same. On the one hand, it cannot
bear the idea that it might have something to learn from politics and from
a politician. And on the other hand, it cannot bear the idea that philosophy
might be the object of a theory, i.e. of an objective knowledge. - Louis Althusser
two reasons, which are really one and the same. On the one hand, it cannot
bear the idea that it might have something to learn from politics and from
a politician. And on the other hand, it cannot bear the idea that philosophy
might be the object of a theory, i.e. of an objective knowledge. - Louis Althusser
Clint Eastwood and Aleatory Materialism
In a two-page note he wrote in 1986 titled ‘Portrait du philosophe matérialiste’,
Althusser refers to the unknown, perhaps even outlaw, hero of
American Westerns typical of the popular culture of his own era, someone who
jumps on to a moving train without knowing whence it comes or where it is
going, then gets off at a small station and heads for the saloon to quench his
thirst:
Saloon, beer, whiskey. ‘Where d’ya hail from, bud?’ ‘From a long way off.’
‘Where ya headed?’ ‘Dunno!’ ‘Might have some work for ya.’ ‘Okay’.
The hero in the Westerns is the figure of an aleatory materialist, who does not
know the beginning or goal of his long journey. He is, nevertheless, a positive hero,
not a villain, even if the hero is an outlaw. In the town he gains the trust
of the people, reluctantly fastens the sheriff’s badge on his chest, presents his
own unique interpretation of the law, curbs the villains and schemers who
have terrorised the town, returns order for the time being and then disappears
into the sunset of the desert without knowing how long his good fortune
will continue or whether he will soon be killed by a bullet or arrow in some
skirmish.
Nobody or nothing forces the hero to jump on to that particular train nor to
get off at that particular station, nor to take on the job of the sheriff. The hero is
not a cavalry officer who merely obeys the orders of his superiors, nor is he a
city dweller or someone representing the federal state, as perhaps the previous
sheriff was, but who was unable to fulfill his legal duties.
- Mikko Lahtinen, Politics and Philosophy 'Althusser’s Aleatory Machiavelli', p.178
Althusser refers to the unknown, perhaps even outlaw, hero of
American Westerns typical of the popular culture of his own era, someone who
jumps on to a moving train without knowing whence it comes or where it is
going, then gets off at a small station and heads for the saloon to quench his
thirst:
Saloon, beer, whiskey. ‘Where d’ya hail from, bud?’ ‘From a long way off.’
‘Where ya headed?’ ‘Dunno!’ ‘Might have some work for ya.’ ‘Okay’.
The hero in the Westerns is the figure of an aleatory materialist, who does not
know the beginning or goal of his long journey. He is, nevertheless, a positive hero,
not a villain, even if the hero is an outlaw. In the town he gains the trust
of the people, reluctantly fastens the sheriff’s badge on his chest, presents his
own unique interpretation of the law, curbs the villains and schemers who
have terrorised the town, returns order for the time being and then disappears
into the sunset of the desert without knowing how long his good fortune
will continue or whether he will soon be killed by a bullet or arrow in some
skirmish.
Nobody or nothing forces the hero to jump on to that particular train nor to
get off at that particular station, nor to take on the job of the sheriff. The hero is
not a cavalry officer who merely obeys the orders of his superiors, nor is he a
city dweller or someone representing the federal state, as perhaps the previous
sheriff was, but who was unable to fulfill his legal duties.
- Mikko Lahtinen, Politics and Philosophy 'Althusser’s Aleatory Machiavelli', p.178
The ‘Germany’ where Fascisms are born is not a territory or a population - Andre Glucksmann, The Master Thinkers, pp.37-47
The ‘Germany’ where Fascisms are born is not a territory or a
population but a text and an attitude to texts which became
established long before Hitler.
[…]
Equivalence of a text with a territory—true, for the last five
hundred years, and with some exceptions. But it is in the
armed institution of the text that we have to see the active
side of this equivalence: the text lays down the law for the
territory.
[…]:
Texts do not simply serve the exercise of power, they are that
very exercise, they subject people. Even more than the chains
of slavery, they are part of that slavery. Policemen inside the
heads of those who subjected them, the great texts of power
in Europe are not in the service of the strategies of domination,
they are these strategies themselves.
population but a text and an attitude to texts which became
established long before Hitler.
[…]
Equivalence of a text with a territory—true, for the last five
hundred years, and with some exceptions. But it is in the
armed institution of the text that we have to see the active
side of this equivalence: the text lays down the law for the
territory.
[…]:
Texts do not simply serve the exercise of power, they are that
very exercise, they subject people. Even more than the chains
of slavery, they are part of that slavery. Policemen inside the
heads of those who subjected them, the great texts of power
in Europe are not in the service of the strategies of domination,
they are these strategies themselves.
The Language of the Third Reich: A Philologist's Notebook - Victor Klemperer
o, the most powerful influence was exerted neither by individual speeches nor by articles or flyers, posters or flags; it was not achieved by things which one had to absorb by conscious thought or conscious emotions.
Instead Nazism permeated the flesh and blood of the people through single words, idioms and sentence structures which were imposed on them in a million repetitions and taken on board mechanically and unconsciously. . . language does not simply write and think for me, it also increasingly dictates my feelings and governs my entire spiritual being the more unquestioningly and unconsciously I abandon myself to it.
And what happens if the cultivated language is made up of poisonous elements or has been made the bearer of poisons? Words can be like tiny doses of arsenic: they are swallowed unnoticed, appear to have no effect, and then after a little time the toxic reaction sets in after all.
The Third Reich coined only a very small number of the words in its language, perhaps - indeed probably - none at all. . . But it changes the value of words and the frequency of their occurrence, it makes common property out of what was previously the preserve of an individual or a tiny group, it commandeers for the party that which was previously common property and in the process steeps words and groups of words and sentence structures with its poison
Victor Klemperer, The Language of the Third Reich: A Philologist's Notebook, trans. Martin Brady, London: Continuum, 2002, pp. 15–16
Instead Nazism permeated the flesh and blood of the people through single words, idioms and sentence structures which were imposed on them in a million repetitions and taken on board mechanically and unconsciously. . . language does not simply write and think for me, it also increasingly dictates my feelings and governs my entire spiritual being the more unquestioningly and unconsciously I abandon myself to it.
And what happens if the cultivated language is made up of poisonous elements or has been made the bearer of poisons? Words can be like tiny doses of arsenic: they are swallowed unnoticed, appear to have no effect, and then after a little time the toxic reaction sets in after all.
The Third Reich coined only a very small number of the words in its language, perhaps - indeed probably - none at all. . . But it changes the value of words and the frequency of their occurrence, it makes common property out of what was previously the preserve of an individual or a tiny group, it commandeers for the party that which was previously common property and in the process steeps words and groups of words and sentence structures with its poison
Victor Klemperer, The Language of the Third Reich: A Philologist's Notebook, trans. Martin Brady, London: Continuum, 2002, pp. 15–16
It was my first long-winded poem - Mario Santiago
Oscar Olivia told me: You have fifteen days, can you do it? And he was dangling the 300 pesos in front of only me and I told him hell yes, and I wrote a poem about 60 pages long. It was my first long-winded poem. My first solo reading was in the Museo de San Carlos on May 3rd of 1974. I wasn't born yesterday. And in 1975 I founded the Mexican Infrarealist movement. Around then they started to get sick of me, because I was confronting Pacheco, Monsiváis, everyone I know of. No one wants to give me a job. For four years I have no income. Sergio Mondragón has refused to give me a job because I'm an Infrarealist. They say I sabotage readings. They say the Infrarealists beat people up. And those idiots allege that I don't know how to write. Motherfuckers. I am l’ecrivain. But that's not important. Better if I read you some things...
Analysis situs (a geometry of position, or what we now call topology) - Henri Poincare (1895)
. . . geometry is the art of reasoning well from badly drawn figures;
however, these figures, if they are not to deceive us, must satisfy
certain conditions; the proportions may be grossly altered, but the
relative positions of the different parts must not be upset.
however, these figures, if they are not to deceive us, must satisfy
certain conditions; the proportions may be grossly altered, but the
relative positions of the different parts must not be upset.
A Dialogue About a Dialogue - J. L. Borges
A Dialogue About a Dialogue - J. L. Borges
A: Absorbed in our discussion of immortality, we had let night fall without lighting the lamp, and we couldn’t see each other’s faces. With an offhandedness or gentleness more convincing than passion would have been, Macedonio Fernandez’ voice said once more that the soul is immortal. He assured me that the death of the body is altogether insignificant, and that dying has to be the most unimportant thing that can happen to a man. I was playing with Macedonio’s pocketknife, opening and closing it. A nearby accordion was infinitely dispatching La Comparsita, that dismaying trifle that so many people like because it’s been misrepresented to them as being old. . . . I suggested to Macedonio that we kill ourselves, so we might have our discussion without all the racket.
Z: (mockingly) But I suspect that at the last moment you reconsidered.
A: (now deep in mysticism) Quite frankly, I don’t remember whether we committed suicide that night or not.
A: Absorbed in our discussion of immortality, we had let night fall without lighting the lamp, and we couldn’t see each other’s faces. With an offhandedness or gentleness more convincing than passion would have been, Macedonio Fernandez’ voice said once more that the soul is immortal. He assured me that the death of the body is altogether insignificant, and that dying has to be the most unimportant thing that can happen to a man. I was playing with Macedonio’s pocketknife, opening and closing it. A nearby accordion was infinitely dispatching La Comparsita, that dismaying trifle that so many people like because it’s been misrepresented to them as being old. . . . I suggested to Macedonio that we kill ourselves, so we might have our discussion without all the racket.
Z: (mockingly) But I suspect that at the last moment you reconsidered.
A: (now deep in mysticism) Quite frankly, I don’t remember whether we committed suicide that night or not.
Sonnet of the Seven Chinese - Franco Fortini
The Augsburg poet once said he had tacked
an image of the Man of Doubt
to the wall of his room. A Chinese print.
The image asked: how ought one to act?
I have a photo on my wall. Twenty years ago
seven Chinese workers looked into my lens.
They look wary or ironic or tense.
They know I do not write for them. I know
they didn’t live for me. Yet sometimes I feel
I’m being asked for more candid words,
more credible deeds, by their doubtfulness.
In turn I ask their help in making visible
the contradictions and identities among us.
If there’s a point, it’s this.
an image of the Man of Doubt
to the wall of his room. A Chinese print.
The image asked: how ought one to act?
I have a photo on my wall. Twenty years ago
seven Chinese workers looked into my lens.
They look wary or ironic or tense.
They know I do not write for them. I know
they didn’t live for me. Yet sometimes I feel
I’m being asked for more candid words,
more credible deeds, by their doubtfulness.
In turn I ask their help in making visible
the contradictions and identities among us.
If there’s a point, it’s this.
Notes Land of Dogs
1. Most of the mainlanders do not use youtube
2. The border, if we are refering to the one btw HK and Mainland, is internal, which is to say there isn't a border. The 'border' was enforced by the British after Opium war. HK is not like Scotland, but closer to the status of Gilbraltar. Not wanting to be 'counted as one' is separatist: within an imperialist/nationalist/ethnical framework. Unlike Badiou's dialectics, this case of 'one divides into two' is not revolutionary but was enforced by the colonial-imperial power in the 19th century, the problem of seeing a divide is the 'residue' of colonialism, like the Peranakans.
3. Perhaps, what is 'revolutionary' for East Asians, not only Chineses, is not division but unity. Divide and Conquer was/is an imperilaist strategy used again and again against potential colonies. Perhaps we should not give Badiou who is still a philosopher and Ang Moh too much respect. It must be inverted like what Marx did to Hegel, and Mao to Marx.
Perhaps, what is 'revolutionary' for East Asians, not only the Chinese, is not division but unity. Divide and Conquer was/is an imperilaist strategy used again and again against potential colonies. Perhaps we should not give Badiou who is still a philosopher and Ang Moh too much respect. It must be inverted like what Marx did to Hegel, and Mao to Marx.
'Many Hong Kong people don’t think they are Chinese. They shout: ‘We are Hong Kong; you are China,’” Kong said, mocking the Hong Kong Cantonese accent. “These kinds of people got accustomed to being running dogs for British imperialists. Until now they are still dogs.” Such people, he added, “are not human. ... They are dogs of imperialism.”'
'Another protester, retired engineer Roger Chow, said Hong Kongers feel Chinese but don’t like the Communist Party, which he said had deformed Chinese culture and tradition. “I’m not against fellow Chinese from the mainland,” he said, “but the party is not China.”' - That was what a petit-bourgeois person in Singapore said to me too. Fuck Chinese culture of defeat and tradition of servility, also ang paos and CNY visits. If one needs to retain one's 'culture' by being colonialised I did rather be a barbarian.
2. The border, if we are refering to the one btw HK and Mainland, is internal, which is to say there isn't a border. The 'border' was enforced by the British after Opium war. HK is not like Scotland, but closer to the status of Gilbraltar. Not wanting to be 'counted as one' is separatist: within an imperialist/nationalist/ethnical framework. Unlike Badiou's dialectics, this case of 'one divides into two' is not revolutionary but was enforced by the colonial-imperial power in the 19th century, the problem of seeing a divide is the 'residue' of colonialism, like the Peranakans.
3. Perhaps, what is 'revolutionary' for East Asians, not only Chineses, is not division but unity. Divide and Conquer was/is an imperilaist strategy used again and again against potential colonies. Perhaps we should not give Badiou who is still a philosopher and Ang Moh too much respect. It must be inverted like what Marx did to Hegel, and Mao to Marx.
Perhaps, what is 'revolutionary' for East Asians, not only the Chinese, is not division but unity. Divide and Conquer was/is an imperilaist strategy used again and again against potential colonies. Perhaps we should not give Badiou who is still a philosopher and Ang Moh too much respect. It must be inverted like what Marx did to Hegel, and Mao to Marx.
'Many Hong Kong people don’t think they are Chinese. They shout: ‘We are Hong Kong; you are China,’” Kong said, mocking the Hong Kong Cantonese accent. “These kinds of people got accustomed to being running dogs for British imperialists. Until now they are still dogs.” Such people, he added, “are not human. ... They are dogs of imperialism.”'
'Another protester, retired engineer Roger Chow, said Hong Kongers feel Chinese but don’t like the Communist Party, which he said had deformed Chinese culture and tradition. “I’m not against fellow Chinese from the mainland,” he said, “but the party is not China.”' - That was what a petit-bourgeois person in Singapore said to me too. Fuck Chinese culture of defeat and tradition of servility, also ang paos and CNY visits. If one needs to retain one's 'culture' by being colonialised I did rather be a barbarian.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Balding
Rosewood pillow and a leg of the armchair fractured, the cold, hard broken Chinese furniture. I studied legs of women of young girls of men of tables of stools and stray cats, and thought of models and whores. In a public place, I see her balding like an old man, a few grey strands on top - the top of her head an open field. She sees better with her glasses on. She did not hide herself or her frame of a ten year old, I mean, the size of her bones not the skin or posture. Few strands like the Chinese painter from an art academy wandering along Middle road. She is under the noon sun, the noon next to a complex, I can still see the shadow of things and beings. She moves under the shelter that leads to the interchange, she is not another mad woman in the amusement park with ten dirty plastic bags tied around her and an unwashed head, she is not another homeless man, sleeping around, lying on the parapet, scratching his crotch. I want to believe she is chaste, I only see she is only balding. I thought about mothers and skeletons, young mothers to be, mothers have been.
I was on my way to get a book about Sun Yat-sen from a balding professor, but he was not in, I guess, he spent most part of last night with a Saint by the name of James. By the coffee place, I saw the Chinese painter bald and undead, I saw and read and learnt that most of his friends are now spectral. I relate this to the balding Javan Myna we saw when we were along the same street.
Few nights ago, you told me it was cold. And the wind and temperature here in December could create the illusion. The temperature made it proper to understand rationalism better. We know it is ridiculous to say it was cold last night. But it did help with your reading of German Idealism and metaphysics. I told another old man, not the balding one, but a real hairy one about one year for archiving, one year for reading, one year for writing, one year for publishing, one year for collecting royalties, I did not tell the old man, not the balding one, but a real hairy one, that it would one year of reading only what I have read before. One year of rereading. It is ridiculous to think about writing under this weather, you might have ink blots on the pages of your manuscript, but nothing like Victor Hugo’s, it is sweat not tears, it is not hardship but heat and humidity.
I was at a coffeeshop. I saw four crabs in a huge fish tank. They have ample space to move, although the claws were tied with dirty strings the colour of those crabs. They aren’t hairy crabs. They are from Sri Lanka. Yesterday was a public holiday, most of them must have been slain, quartered and soak in chilli or pepper last evening - overpopulation.
I was on my way to get a book about Sun Yat-sen from a balding professor, but he was not in, I guess, he spent most part of last night with a Saint by the name of James. By the coffee place, I saw the Chinese painter bald and undead, I saw and read and learnt that most of his friends are now spectral. I relate this to the balding Javan Myna we saw when we were along the same street.
Few nights ago, you told me it was cold. And the wind and temperature here in December could create the illusion. The temperature made it proper to understand rationalism better. We know it is ridiculous to say it was cold last night. But it did help with your reading of German Idealism and metaphysics. I told another old man, not the balding one, but a real hairy one about one year for archiving, one year for reading, one year for writing, one year for publishing, one year for collecting royalties, I did not tell the old man, not the balding one, but a real hairy one, that it would one year of reading only what I have read before. One year of rereading. It is ridiculous to think about writing under this weather, you might have ink blots on the pages of your manuscript, but nothing like Victor Hugo’s, it is sweat not tears, it is not hardship but heat and humidity.
I was at a coffeeshop. I saw four crabs in a huge fish tank. They have ample space to move, although the claws were tied with dirty strings the colour of those crabs. They aren’t hairy crabs. They are from Sri Lanka. Yesterday was a public holiday, most of them must have been slain, quartered and soak in chilli or pepper last evening - overpopulation.
Departure
A couple, one of them has to leave the country, for a period of time, for work or school, it could be three months, it could be six months, a year or two, or perhaps they did not know they will never meet again, or that things will never be the same when they see each other again, the clichéd scenario: of the guy already married, the girl is now pregnant, or the girl is engaged and the guy, has gotten someone else pregnant, and whatever. Yet, there are other things occupying the mind of the one who is going to leave than the imminent departure, perhaps it is to distract them from making epic statements or promises to each other, showing epic emotion, or any histrionic gesture, it could be mundane, because of the half-packed luggage, and it would very likely be banal, about the long hour flight with transit - to get mentally prepared for it, to be only half-asleep throughout the journey, if one could really fall asleep, next to another stranger, to sleep sitting, to see that service industry smile of the air stewardess, the badly choreographed safety evacuation demonstration or video, because in reality the flight is not twenty-second seconds, like in some bad film or drama where the scene and sound of a plane taking off cuts to the protagonist on the plane looks sadly out of the window, and then switches to the scene of another country, sometimes with caption at the bottom, stating the new location, because the flight is fucking twenty-eight hours excluding transit.
So the couple decides never to see each other off at the airport, he went to her place instead, an hour before she has to leave for the airport, when it was time he has to leave, she sees him off instead, at the corridor, they exchanged another few words, mostly broken sentences from him to trade for her smile, he kept reminding himself, nothing too sentimental shall be uttered, it is always harder to not say what you wanted say than to follow the impulse of saying out. She was leaning against the wall, he noticed a cockroach crawling, he pointed it to her, and she reacted like how people usually reacted to cockroaches, but without hysterical screams (he thought of the song lyrics, ‘watching roaches climb the wall, if you call your daddy he could stop it all.’ And her dad was actually inside the house, getting ready to go with her to the airport.) She told him, not her dad, kill it, kill it! He asked, with what? The sandal, the Birkenstock! One smack, the cockroach fell and wriggled on the floor, and she said, not dead yet, kill it! He ignored her second order to kill. He swept the cockroach towards the stairs and kicked it down the steps. He did not tell her that he was amused by how her decision, or intuition, perhaps out of fear, is similar to Adolf Hitler’s.
So the couple decides never to see each other off at the airport, he went to her place instead, an hour before she has to leave for the airport, when it was time he has to leave, she sees him off instead, at the corridor, they exchanged another few words, mostly broken sentences from him to trade for her smile, he kept reminding himself, nothing too sentimental shall be uttered, it is always harder to not say what you wanted say than to follow the impulse of saying out. She was leaning against the wall, he noticed a cockroach crawling, he pointed it to her, and she reacted like how people usually reacted to cockroaches, but without hysterical screams (he thought of the song lyrics, ‘watching roaches climb the wall, if you call your daddy he could stop it all.’ And her dad was actually inside the house, getting ready to go with her to the airport.) She told him, not her dad, kill it, kill it! He asked, with what? The sandal, the Birkenstock! One smack, the cockroach fell and wriggled on the floor, and she said, not dead yet, kill it! He ignored her second order to kill. He swept the cockroach towards the stairs and kicked it down the steps. He did not tell her that he was amused by how her decision, or intuition, perhaps out of fear, is similar to Adolf Hitler’s.
On Humour
Chien Swee-Teng: Lao Tzu says, if one desires to have a sense of humour, one must laugh at things such as dead orphans.
On Class Attendance
"I don't want to hear any more about class struggle. If not I'll send in my sociologists!"
On the Future of Hokkien for the Ancient Middle Kingdom
Chien Swee-Teng: Lao Tzu says, from the South will arise the great Fujian empire for a thousand years
On Child Care
孔子说, 小孩不听话, 就应该把他踢下楼梯
Chien Swee-Teng: Confucius says, when children disobey one should kick them down the stairs.
Chien Swee-Teng: Confucius says, when children disobey one should kick them down the stairs.
The Dream of an Eastern Imperialist
昨晚我梦见一个统一的东亚
(Chien Swee-Teng: no translation as requested by the author)
On Children and every Chinese New Year
他妈的小孩,只会拿红包,快把他们踢下楼梯!
Chien Swee-Teng: Bloody Children, all they know about is collecting ang baos (red packets), kick them down the stairs!
Chien Swee-Teng: Bloody Children, all they know about is collecting ang baos (red packets), kick them down the stairs!
Condemned Milk – Chien Swee-Teng
Condemned Milk – Chien Swee-Teng
Having a bao for afternoon tea, I thought maybe I should tell some of my friends that bao is my favourite food. But today, I will have it with tea with milk instead. Usually I prefer tea with a bit of sugar. But Mr Lee says, that the doctors say, tea is diuretic, he drinks only warm water now. In the kitchen, as I was scooping the sticky condensed milk into the cup, I thought about honey, caramel and other malty, sweet sticky stuff, the single drip that always stain the outside of the cup, the best evident of a cup not washed properly. I thought about those who pour fresh milk into their tea, about the time when I asked for condensed milk in a café, here not somewhere in Europe or your favourite country, Australia, and the look on your face, as if you were disgusted or disgraced by my request. I thought about those kids who grew up drinking condensed milk, around the fifties or forties, I vaguely recall an episode in a drama series where a young mother procuring a few canned of condensed milk for her baby, during the pre or post war years, is the script of an adventure, of one woman condemned to an adventure she did not volunteer for. The bad guy with a gunnysack filled with cans and cans of condensed milk for her. He once betrayed some Reds hiding in the jungle. But he is not turning into Santa Claus for her, he wants to rape her, his fingers turned into claws though, scratching her skin, he rips off the top buttons of her shirt, fully exposing her neck, her fair collar bones, and part of her chest. Anyway, it was an episode so long ago, about a time even further back than the drama series. I thought about your favourite author, Haruki Murakami and his list of international cuisine, about the hamburger steak his protagonist was having, about how to cook pasta. I thought about mushrooms, our conversation about mushrooms. Off guard, I mentioned the Narcissus mushrooms, the canned mushrooms, and it was another chance for you to show me another contorted facial expression, to remind me how refined taste for good quality food defines you. Yes, I know it is from China, and who knows what kind of liquid the evenly brown synthetic mushrooms were drowned in. Then I remember you told me you know quite a bit about art, and your favourite is Warhol’s Campbell soup cans. Food related art, food related metaphors, analogies and anecdotes… But we are still friends because we can always talk about food, actually only about food. Like most people in this country, I am also guilty of always talking about food. It is nice to talk only or mostly about food, because to eat is not to think.
"You are what you eat" - Feuerbach
Having a bao for afternoon tea, I thought maybe I should tell some of my friends that bao is my favourite food. But today, I will have it with tea with milk instead. Usually I prefer tea with a bit of sugar. But Mr Lee says, that the doctors say, tea is diuretic, he drinks only warm water now. In the kitchen, as I was scooping the sticky condensed milk into the cup, I thought about honey, caramel and other malty, sweet sticky stuff, the single drip that always stain the outside of the cup, the best evident of a cup not washed properly. I thought about those who pour fresh milk into their tea, about the time when I asked for condensed milk in a café, here not somewhere in Europe or your favourite country, Australia, and the look on your face, as if you were disgusted or disgraced by my request. I thought about those kids who grew up drinking condensed milk, around the fifties or forties, I vaguely recall an episode in a drama series where a young mother procuring a few canned of condensed milk for her baby, during the pre or post war years, is the script of an adventure, of one woman condemned to an adventure she did not volunteer for. The bad guy with a gunnysack filled with cans and cans of condensed milk for her. He once betrayed some Reds hiding in the jungle. But he is not turning into Santa Claus for her, he wants to rape her, his fingers turned into claws though, scratching her skin, he rips off the top buttons of her shirt, fully exposing her neck, her fair collar bones, and part of her chest. Anyway, it was an episode so long ago, about a time even further back than the drama series. I thought about your favourite author, Haruki Murakami and his list of international cuisine, about the hamburger steak his protagonist was having, about how to cook pasta. I thought about mushrooms, our conversation about mushrooms. Off guard, I mentioned the Narcissus mushrooms, the canned mushrooms, and it was another chance for you to show me another contorted facial expression, to remind me how refined taste for good quality food defines you. Yes, I know it is from China, and who knows what kind of liquid the evenly brown synthetic mushrooms were drowned in. Then I remember you told me you know quite a bit about art, and your favourite is Warhol’s Campbell soup cans. Food related art, food related metaphors, analogies and anecdotes… But we are still friends because we can always talk about food, actually only about food. Like most people in this country, I am also guilty of always talking about food. It is nice to talk only or mostly about food, because to eat is not to think.
"You are what you eat" - Feuerbach
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Clementine - Chien Swee-Teng
Clementine - Chien Swee-Teng
the poet of chips and beer,
interrupts our strumming and singing
like a grandpa;
asking about the last train
but he is also the poet of flowers, although I forgot what he said
when he was walking past some red tropical flowers of december
is there a difference between chicks and ladies?
no, says the poet of half-moon, as he points to the sky
the poet of the river, look at the murky brown water
was it ever green?
[the same river we threw glasses, beer bottles and one chic plastic chair into]
asked the poet of
flower
women
moon
and river
and out of spite, he called his best friend Harry Potter
the poet of rock.
the poet of chips and beer,
interrupts our strumming and singing
like a grandpa;
asking about the last train
but he is also the poet of flowers, although I forgot what he said
when he was walking past some red tropical flowers of december
is there a difference between chicks and ladies?
no, says the poet of half-moon, as he points to the sky
the poet of the river, look at the murky brown water
was it ever green?
[the same river we threw glasses, beer bottles and one chic plastic chair into]
asked the poet of
flower
women
moon
and river
and out of spite, he called his best friend Harry Potter
the poet of rock.
The Gang of Four - Chien Swee-Teng
The Gang of Four - Chien Swee-Teng
1. The Han Tang Martial Art School is a school without a master, for every disciple is the master of the other disciple, self-education is the maxim.
2. It was late at night, Wang, who was half-drunk, wanted to leave, but the rest did not allow him to: just because he has to receive the fresh cockles he ordered, the fresh cockles he wanted to prepare the next day is not a valid excuse. It will be sent to his hut, in the west, in the morning. To the rest, this is a bloody cock reason, and unbecoming for a swordsman. Wang laughed, the rest could hear his lungs tremble, then Zhang arrived, stepping in from the main door, not jumping in from the window or landing and breaking a few tiles on the roof. He came with another jar of wine, just one jar, he told us, was what he could afford at the moment. Wang stood up when to the store and carried out another three jars, 'Fret not, we still have another eighteen! hahaha!'
Then the conversation drifted to another cock related subject. Jiang, sitting on the rocking chair, began ranting, about the rat, the rest applaused, it was a brilliant rant! The presence of the rat shall be the downfall of the sect. The rat who could find all available cracks and holes in the wall to sneak in. It seems to be the final straw for Jiang, who was very disturbed by cock face of the pest, his slimy gestures, although Wang and Zhang prefer to visualise it as bulldog. The pest by the surname of Dong. Wang reminded him of what he read about the return, at every Thermidorian phase of the revolution, how this pest could survive every persecution. Yao teased Jiang about how it took him so long to react, 'what a long final straw'. Jiang and Yao laughed like eunuchs from the Eastern Chamber.
3. The conversation drifted to women they have left and the women they should now select and neglect, the assasination plan with Lin, the next robbery, the second cultural revolution, another again, of how one divides into two. In short, it was a very male chauvinistic conversation.
4. That night Wang peed on to the flowers and rocks in the garden thrice, and pointed to a lantern hanging from the beam twice, relating it to something about stars and night sky. The rest kept quiet, all of them know he was being poetic again, although he hardly wrote anything down (perhaps, except for an unfinished short story based on Yao's encounter with a half-Russian woman, whom Yao offered about two thousand copper coins in exchange for nothing). After peeing on a rock, he asked Yao why the top of the rock is lighter, almost white? Yao replied, cheebye.
Apart from displaying his literary talent, Wang also like to exhibit his strength, practice his sword play and kicks. Wang drew his sword and cut the rock into two and laughed loudly, the rest heard his lungs trembling again. Both Zhang and Yao were reminded of an incident two months ago: Wang left a brothel terribly drunk, roaming the street alone, Zhang and Lin offered to send him off, but Wang screamed at them to fuck off, Wang fell asleep on the street, lost his sword and money, then walked past a Yamen, kicked smashed the wooden sign and stele outside. The morning after Wang was so worried he burnt the shoes and clothes he was wearing that night, and stayed in, worrying that the constables might be looking for him. This state of paranoia lasted for about two weeks, and Wang was noticeably slimmer, his belly were smaller, chin sharper. This state ended when a courtesan from one of the many brothels he frequent asked for him.
5. Zhang and Wang climbed up to the mezzanine to sleep, it's cooler there. Yao fell asleep briefly on the opium bed in the store, it seemed he wanted to get another jar. Then he gets up with a slight neck ache, walked past Jiang who was lying in the middle of the hall amongst the either empty or broken jars and joined the other two at the mezzanine. In the morning, Jiang woke up with a headache, he left just before sunrise, left without saying farewell to the rest, just like a swordsman, the true behavior of a swordsman, he left quietly without wanting to interrupt the three who were snoring. He jumped over the wall of the estate, and crossed the bridge above the river, towards the west woods where the next chapter about Jiang's face off with another Rat is set.
1. The Han Tang Martial Art School is a school without a master, for every disciple is the master of the other disciple, self-education is the maxim.
2. It was late at night, Wang, who was half-drunk, wanted to leave, but the rest did not allow him to: just because he has to receive the fresh cockles he ordered, the fresh cockles he wanted to prepare the next day is not a valid excuse. It will be sent to his hut, in the west, in the morning. To the rest, this is a bloody cock reason, and unbecoming for a swordsman. Wang laughed, the rest could hear his lungs tremble, then Zhang arrived, stepping in from the main door, not jumping in from the window or landing and breaking a few tiles on the roof. He came with another jar of wine, just one jar, he told us, was what he could afford at the moment. Wang stood up when to the store and carried out another three jars, 'Fret not, we still have another eighteen! hahaha!'
Then the conversation drifted to another cock related subject. Jiang, sitting on the rocking chair, began ranting, about the rat, the rest applaused, it was a brilliant rant! The presence of the rat shall be the downfall of the sect. The rat who could find all available cracks and holes in the wall to sneak in. It seems to be the final straw for Jiang, who was very disturbed by cock face of the pest, his slimy gestures, although Wang and Zhang prefer to visualise it as bulldog. The pest by the surname of Dong. Wang reminded him of what he read about the return, at every Thermidorian phase of the revolution, how this pest could survive every persecution. Yao teased Jiang about how it took him so long to react, 'what a long final straw'. Jiang and Yao laughed like eunuchs from the Eastern Chamber.
3. The conversation drifted to women they have left and the women they should now select and neglect, the assasination plan with Lin, the next robbery, the second cultural revolution, another again, of how one divides into two. In short, it was a very male chauvinistic conversation.
4. That night Wang peed on to the flowers and rocks in the garden thrice, and pointed to a lantern hanging from the beam twice, relating it to something about stars and night sky. The rest kept quiet, all of them know he was being poetic again, although he hardly wrote anything down (perhaps, except for an unfinished short story based on Yao's encounter with a half-Russian woman, whom Yao offered about two thousand copper coins in exchange for nothing). After peeing on a rock, he asked Yao why the top of the rock is lighter, almost white? Yao replied, cheebye.
Apart from displaying his literary talent, Wang also like to exhibit his strength, practice his sword play and kicks. Wang drew his sword and cut the rock into two and laughed loudly, the rest heard his lungs trembling again. Both Zhang and Yao were reminded of an incident two months ago: Wang left a brothel terribly drunk, roaming the street alone, Zhang and Lin offered to send him off, but Wang screamed at them to fuck off, Wang fell asleep on the street, lost his sword and money, then walked past a Yamen, kicked smashed the wooden sign and stele outside. The morning after Wang was so worried he burnt the shoes and clothes he was wearing that night, and stayed in, worrying that the constables might be looking for him. This state of paranoia lasted for about two weeks, and Wang was noticeably slimmer, his belly were smaller, chin sharper. This state ended when a courtesan from one of the many brothels he frequent asked for him.
5. Zhang and Wang climbed up to the mezzanine to sleep, it's cooler there. Yao fell asleep briefly on the opium bed in the store, it seemed he wanted to get another jar. Then he gets up with a slight neck ache, walked past Jiang who was lying in the middle of the hall amongst the either empty or broken jars and joined the other two at the mezzanine. In the morning, Jiang woke up with a headache, he left just before sunrise, left without saying farewell to the rest, just like a swordsman, the true behavior of a swordsman, he left quietly without wanting to interrupt the three who were snoring. He jumped over the wall of the estate, and crossed the bridge above the river, towards the west woods where the next chapter about Jiang's face off with another Rat is set.
24 Hours News
24 Hours News
'I was seventeen/and I had to confess/ that my dreams were often wet/ watch her reading the news/ sat in front of her/ she told me about the tragedies of the day.'
First it was Diana then it was Lara in Berlin, reporting from somewhere in Madrid.
Now it is Andrea at Caldecott!!
It is dangerous to watch the news these days
to hear horrible stories about the world spurting out from these beautiful faces
- this world is warped. Beautiful faces are hired to tell real-time horror
The Beautiful Face is always so concern, so serious, so neutral
she must be sitting on the fence when reading out the news, but we can't see the lower half.
and the slight smile, with the eyes, she must have been practicing in front of the mirror,
the slight tilt of her head, the her wavy hair. 'The world is a mess but her hair is perfect'.
Her eyes on the script and looked up at you and smile once they switched from the footage of disaster to her again in the studio. Her eyes, only faithful to the script and your presence in front of the screen. She tilt her head slightly again.
facing you, on screen, as if she is only talking to you, you are a 39 year old bachelor or divorcee, who has, decided to stay in tonight, than to try your luck in a bar or club. You thought you, as an intellectual, an academic, a successful entreprenuer, executive, a man of the world, should show some concern for what is happening to this world. and you turn on the TV to watch a local news channel that claims to be regional if not international. And you saw her. Perhaps wanking could be better than one night stand. wanking to occasional images of her facing you, wanking to her voice accompanying images of rescue efforts, politicians clapping when another politicans came on stage to give a speech, soldiers in middle east, terrorists with AK-47 potinting to where we used to suppose God stays, Northeast Asia, Japanese bowing and bowing, Thai smiling, Indians crying, North Koreans clapping, South Koreans in a tussle, Chinese not smiling again, deadpan, currency of Mao, the machince calculates the amount, US on Chinese currency again, air pollution, assembly line, cars, students and NS men and particpants of a charity run, Indonesians demonstrating burning the banners they made, Italian MPs, another corruption scandal, got in to the car cutting through the reporters, overpaid footballers doing warm up wearing the something smilar to what the Bangladeshee workers are wearing when cutting grass or during road works, and another golf champion, another black guy and a white ball like a speck on the screen roll into a hole. I think it only took you a while. The world could really do with less images of the world. Stop making a picture out of everything we see.
and if you are elevated from wanker stalker to lover
that there might be the incident of her at the dinner table, opposite you, and you thought all the things she said about herself, her family, friends, and perhaps, you, is about the world - but why can't she be objective.
and it if you are relegated from lover to stalkers on youtube,
you might imagine everything she reports about the world, like after the evening she stood up and left angrily for work, or not wanting to talk to you after the fight or tiff [could be easily resolved, she will always be the first to speak again with in the next few hours, if you turn on the TV to see her talking, you noticed her eyes are still a little red] is all about you and the relationship between the two of you - must she be so subjective.
'I was seventeen/and I had to confess/ that my dreams were often wet/ watch her reading the news/ sat in front of her/ she told me about the tragedies of the day.'
First it was Diana then it was Lara in Berlin, reporting from somewhere in Madrid.
Now it is Andrea at Caldecott!!
It is dangerous to watch the news these days
to hear horrible stories about the world spurting out from these beautiful faces
- this world is warped. Beautiful faces are hired to tell real-time horror
The Beautiful Face is always so concern, so serious, so neutral
she must be sitting on the fence when reading out the news, but we can't see the lower half.
and the slight smile, with the eyes, she must have been practicing in front of the mirror,
the slight tilt of her head, the her wavy hair. 'The world is a mess but her hair is perfect'.
Her eyes on the script and looked up at you and smile once they switched from the footage of disaster to her again in the studio. Her eyes, only faithful to the script and your presence in front of the screen. She tilt her head slightly again.
facing you, on screen, as if she is only talking to you, you are a 39 year old bachelor or divorcee, who has, decided to stay in tonight, than to try your luck in a bar or club. You thought you, as an intellectual, an academic, a successful entreprenuer, executive, a man of the world, should show some concern for what is happening to this world. and you turn on the TV to watch a local news channel that claims to be regional if not international. And you saw her. Perhaps wanking could be better than one night stand. wanking to occasional images of her facing you, wanking to her voice accompanying images of rescue efforts, politicians clapping when another politicans came on stage to give a speech, soldiers in middle east, terrorists with AK-47 potinting to where we used to suppose God stays, Northeast Asia, Japanese bowing and bowing, Thai smiling, Indians crying, North Koreans clapping, South Koreans in a tussle, Chinese not smiling again, deadpan, currency of Mao, the machince calculates the amount, US on Chinese currency again, air pollution, assembly line, cars, students and NS men and particpants of a charity run, Indonesians demonstrating burning the banners they made, Italian MPs, another corruption scandal, got in to the car cutting through the reporters, overpaid footballers doing warm up wearing the something smilar to what the Bangladeshee workers are wearing when cutting grass or during road works, and another golf champion, another black guy and a white ball like a speck on the screen roll into a hole. I think it only took you a while. The world could really do with less images of the world. Stop making a picture out of everything we see.
and if you are elevated from wanker stalker to lover
that there might be the incident of her at the dinner table, opposite you, and you thought all the things she said about herself, her family, friends, and perhaps, you, is about the world - but why can't she be objective.
and it if you are relegated from lover to stalkers on youtube,
you might imagine everything she reports about the world, like after the evening she stood up and left angrily for work, or not wanting to talk to you after the fight or tiff [could be easily resolved, she will always be the first to speak again with in the next few hours, if you turn on the TV to see her talking, you noticed her eyes are still a little red] is all about you and the relationship between the two of you - must she be so subjective.
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