Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Lungs - Chien Swee-Teng
Zhou returned to the village last week. We were sitting outside a tavern that was closed too early - like all the taverns in the world, he said. Zhou was drinking a jar of wine, a fat clay jar. I was sipping a bowl of plum juice. He asked me a direct but difficult question. For me, it was more difficult to answer than why banditry is axiomatic. A scholar he encountered in the city said to him, sometimes we simply like our job, we enjoy our task. Zhou asked, so is alienation or exploitation still applicable in this case? Intuitively, I said it is merely ideological, false consciousness, I used examples such as those in the assembly line, the producers are seldom the owners, and deviated to the peasants and landlords, personal preference would not change anything, the feudal structure. But I know it was not clear. He did not ask any further. I am not sure if he was perplexed or thinking. He looked away and gazed at a young lady walking by. Although I have the image of him dozing off or distracted by a new pimple on his face during class reading, I know he would be able to understand if it was clearer. I was thinking about the rice fields of the other provinces, although I have never seen or stepped into a rice field before. I was thinking about the slogan Ne travzaillez jamais! Perhaps that was the only thing I could remember. Perhaps it was because of the nightly heavy drinking. Then we both heard the cymbal, it was the middle of third watch. Then I told him a prostitute who loves her job because she is a nympho would not change the fact that the body is used or abused. Instead of seeing it as countering the notion of exploitation, it should be read as an instance of double exploitation. First, the body is abused by the brothel, and then, the body is used by herself, for pleasure. I could elaborate further until I contradict myself, but I didn’t. I was a little disappointed that I only know how to use vulgar examples to elucidate a point. Then he turned back to look at me and grinned and then began to laugh, the laughter was at once idiotic, mischievous, and drunk, his trademark laughter, it was a deep laughter, I could hear his lungs. It reminded me of a teacher who is studying the movement of ants. Then we moved on to eradicate this binary between holy and profane, introduced Agamben into the discussion, about proper use, friendship, marriage as a contract to use each other’s organ, about the notion of profanation, and its relation to Catholicism, the Romans or Greeks.
Friday, November 25, 2011
Temple Fair - Chien Swee-Teng
His surname is Song but he doesn't like to sing. How is he related to Song Jiang (宋江) and what was allegorised between Song Jiang and the Great Song (大宋). Estranged. A man and his state, the Great Song Empire (大宋帝国)! Song marginalised Song! The official is the bandit. He reads history to make up story. He ignores those who spoke to him about historical accuracy and dates. They are like those who enjoy being condemned to cataloguing books, paintings and artefacts. He was at the temple fair. He says, I met him at the crowded temple fair. Noon, he was there with her. She was bored, lacking happiness, at the mansion, staring at her reflection in the pond, longing for the return of the other man. He suggested to her the temple fair, the peddlers and acrobats. The biggest bully in town and his lackeys would harass her but he will be there to protect her. But he doesn't know martial arts. He would be beaten up. But a hero from another town might be passing by and could save her while Song savours the taste of the dust on the ground. He felt down, lacking prosperity, because in the morning someone at chasi (tea hall) judged his character from his calligraphy, from the black ink he spilled, but the picture of her in the garden framed by the pillars...I cut him off, not his head. I thought Song must either be very drunk or mad. This is Paris, fin de siècle, 19th century. What kind of Song dynasty nonsense is he trying to feed me? We are along the arcade, the long arcade, the long passageway. It stretches so long that Walter Benjamin couldn't finish writing about it. He was just too long winded, Song says. This is the age of iron and glass not wood and stone. The poet is Baudelaire, the chee hong kia, Rimbaud, the siow ging na! But our jiu is neither bee jiu (rice wine) nor ang jiu (red wine), Song says. We walked slowly along the shops, mostly shops selling jewellery and watches. I stopped and peered into a shop window. But only nude velvet jewellery busts and amputated plastic hands were on display. It was midnight. Where have they hidden the watches, necklaces and rings when the shop closed, at this time? I told Song we should give it a try one of these days. Break the glass and steal the busts, fuck the alarm. I noticed our reflection on the glass. The humidity here has flattened our hair... fucking tropical weather.
An Indian security guard, with a torch in hand, walk towards the two drunken men and chased them away from the shopping mall, "Excuse me, no loitering outside." The two men threw the half-empty beer cans it at him, and ran away.
An Indian security guard, with a torch in hand, walk towards the two drunken men and chased them away from the shopping mall, "Excuse me, no loitering outside." The two men threw the half-empty beer cans it at him, and ran away.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Point Form
1. On the bus, about twelve midnight, I past an empty carpark next to a hawker centre. (actually, it was only almost empty, a white truck was parked there)
2. Faint amber framed by the dark trees surrounding the rectangular lot, this scene was quiet and still. But I, as the only passenger on top of this slow moving double-decker, was the one who could not keep still - to make an image move without moving it.
3. I thought about what I always remember, each time I see a huge empty carpark at night, what he said about twenty years ago, when the band, all the way from Seattle, was here to promote the album but did not perform, 'give me an empty carpark and I will play you a gig.'
4. The white truck is the type with a heavy air-tight door at the back - good for transporting ice, chicken, laundry or artworks. Perhaps, the type of truck that killed a French literary theorist I half understood.
5. I thought about the awkwardness of being a loquacious stutterer, all the colour-blind painters which are celebrated as unique in art schools now. I thought about the trouble of a half-literate man who has decided to write down what he is too shy, or lacking in eloquence, to say.
6. Trouble, if only it is an exaggeration to call it misery. Two hours to type a paragraph is trouble not misery.
7. Or told to write instead of telling because his son told him he is too long-winded.
8. I find the convenience of silence suspicous than virtuous.
2. Faint amber framed by the dark trees surrounding the rectangular lot, this scene was quiet and still. But I, as the only passenger on top of this slow moving double-decker, was the one who could not keep still - to make an image move without moving it.
3. I thought about what I always remember, each time I see a huge empty carpark at night, what he said about twenty years ago, when the band, all the way from Seattle, was here to promote the album but did not perform, 'give me an empty carpark and I will play you a gig.'
4. The white truck is the type with a heavy air-tight door at the back - good for transporting ice, chicken, laundry or artworks. Perhaps, the type of truck that killed a French literary theorist I half understood.
5. I thought about the awkwardness of being a loquacious stutterer, all the colour-blind painters which are celebrated as unique in art schools now. I thought about the trouble of a half-literate man who has decided to write down what he is too shy, or lacking in eloquence, to say.
6. Trouble, if only it is an exaggeration to call it misery. Two hours to type a paragraph is trouble not misery.
7. Or told to write instead of telling because his son told him he is too long-winded.
8. I find the convenience of silence suspicous than virtuous.
Kafka estaría orgulloso
Casi pierdo la vida de un volantazo intentando entregar a tiempo un shampoo para piojos! Desde la Farmacia de Dios, Kafka estaría orgulloso
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Theatre - Painting
‘My teacher used to be a painter, he told me he hates theatre, perhaps because of how he was treated as a scenic painter when he was working for a theatre company. But he told me it was about the dialogue. Few years later, he wrote and directed a play. The actors were talking. It was shown in a local theatre and then Europe, Brussels. He is also making films now. Amongst the people I know, he is the one who has watched the most films. But I don’t have many friends. I read in the papers that it was shown in Venice. I am happy for him. But I heard the Italians are theatrical.’
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Images - Chien Swee-Teng
I heard more about the death of a dictator from a friend who has seen the video footage. Inside my head, I only have a vague image of the photograph on the front page. It reminded me of the head shots of two dead men years back. They were the sons of another dictator that was executed later by his people under the instigation of some other foreign power. The obscenity of these images is equivalent to the closed-up moments of triple X porn, and the truisms about happiness, life and death in the spiritually pornographic speech of a New Age monk or guru with an enlightened smile. It is horrible and, at the same time, ironic that these images denuding death could be published ‘uncensored’ on the morning papers, while we continue our endless debate about the moral and social aspects of categorising fictitious sex and violence in films and plays.
But I find it somewhat pointless, if not ridiculous, to think about this while sitting on an old wooden bench outside a neighbourhood clinic and smoking. An armchair critic sits on the armchair at least. The clinic is closed today - or perhaps at this time of the day. A middle-aged woman walked past me. Framed by her untidy shoulder length hair, the features of her face are slightly distorted, more akin to those photographs exposing cases of plastic surgery gone wrong than natural birth defects. I thought, but the face of the earth is more than just a case of plastic surgery gone wrong. Perhaps, what happened to her could also be the result of an accident. She noticed I was observing her. I looked away.
A rather old black cat came towards me and sat under a cracked, dirty blue plastic chair next to the bench. Despite the thinning and greying fur it should still be regarded as a black, I guess. The cat was spying on a bald-headed Javan Myna pecking at a piece chicken bone next to the green rubbish bin. I once said to the friend who told about the video footage that a bird pecking at chicken bone is a cannibalistic sight. The friend once, after seeing another bald-headed Javan Myna, lamented, ‘look at the kind of shit we are eating, even the birds are losing feathers.’ It does not matter if his statement is scientifically valid. When I threw the cigarette butt on the floor and stood up the black cat ran away, the Javan Myna, alarmed by this series of manoeuvres, took flight, leaving the chicken bone on the floor to resume the status as an unwanted litter. Out of curiosity, I looked at the board next to the closed metal shutters of the clinic for the consultation hours. Why do doctors need such a long lunch break? And next to it is a poster advertising the health check packages and the prices in larger fonts, larger than the yellowing white fonts stating the consultation hours at least.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Song for my Province – Chien Swee-Teng
Song for my Province (28.10.2011) – Chien Swee-Teng
‘The Austrain misogynist, Otto Weininger, divided women into two categories: mothers and prostitutes. Similarly, men can be classed as fathers and profligates. The fathers again can be graded into two groups: the fathers of children and fathers of “men.” Since all the former can do is beget children, not bring them up, they still have something in common with profligates. The latter not only beget children but also try to educate them, in order that they may be genuine men in the future.’ - Lu Xun, ‘Random Thoughts (no. 25, 1918)’
If it is Roman numbers and Arabic letters, the price of four slabs of meat might be better. To braise (Lor), steam (Chway), because I am patient, grille (Peng), I leave no stone unturned, to pan-fry (Chien)? the oil, but I am profound, I like it deep-fried. We love to share our concern for the price of meat but not the meat. Vegetarians love to despise us and secretly hope we die from all kinds of cancer. But they are kinder, but they are kinder than us, they love animals.
We love the girls from our hometown, fair limbs, flesh-vegetables (bak chye) it doesn’t matter if they shave – their armpits, I mean. Or faint shadow of moustache on another adorable face. I am lying.
I met a German girl, and she told me about the hairy woes on her legs and arms. We discussed Buddhism (a popular topic amongst many Westerners now) and the hairlessness of monks and nuns, and some cunts in school.
I knock on the wall like a door, I forgot to tell you that I am strong, that I am so strong that the wall cracks instead of my bones. And hairlines are born to form a distorted map of the world. But I can’t see my province from it, knowing it is not about the cartographer who prefers pounding than drawing. I live on exaggeration.
I notice a trace of my blood on the wall, few drips, not a spot or a little red dot. ‘Blood on the sheets again’, white sheet but it could be the dark virgin I bought last night, or a menstruation blood of a careless loveless 45 year old. A 78 year old lady is watching the advertisement of Japanese sanitary pad on TV. But she doesn’t say much about the Japanese occupation in 1942. This song is not dedicated to women or to criticise mothers to be. I was born to be unfilial.
I am proud of my province with a name longer than the territory, the almost invisible territory on the world map. Not a problem of scale, 1:63,360, 1 inch = 1 mile. And 1:1000000 made it worse, 1 cm is 10km, pocket size map of Sydney is 1: 15000. Kannina, I failed mathematics in school.
I am proud of my province with a bastardised name, took a cat for a lion when we only have tigers, now dead tigers of Bukit Timah, now intimate friends of paper tigers. What prince, what Hindu, what traitor, what Sang Nila, what Utama, it only reminded me of the word Kannina. For a day, after school, my classmates substituted Kannina with Sang Nila and Sang Nila with Kannina in class. And Utama for conversation in Mandarin. What Srivijayan, what Indo, what Chinese envoy, what Chinese monk, I am not a prince with mythical power or intelligence. I only would throw myself into the sea, than the crown, because of my fear of drowning. What lanchiao lord of the sea! Whose grandfather!
In school, we were told that scientists of the West said tiger and lion are classified as Cats. On my way home I looked at the skinny stray cats around the void deck. One of them, I guessed female, was licking herself. I was reminded of some poses of showgirls in United States from a movie. Science lessons in school must be a protracted joke imported from Germany. I was told that huge rats used to bully their ancestors, some came from Persia and Siam, until the great William Farquhar came to save the day. Anyway, the cheaper beer here must be ordered by the names of cats, fierce cats, black cats, tigers and lions in different language or dialect. Tiger Beer, Leo, Singha…I did not do biology and hate to visit the zoo. The most dangerous species there is considered visitors.
The conversation ended but she forgot to hang up. She did not put the phone down properly. No click. It is landline. I hear the TV. Earlier she played me a song recorded on cassette tape through the phone. In return, to continue this potlatch of muffled sound, I played the acoustic guitar and sang out of tune for her. Scratching of strings is more prominent than the plucking. She is talking to her sister now. I hear screaming, chattering, screaming of joy, bliss and innocence compounded, and laughter and chattering of joy, bliss, unfounded excitement and potential hysteria compounded. I hear a man’s voice, the father, I guessed. Is that how she behaves at home? How she speaks to her family. I put the phone down. I hear it click.
First time out of the province, on our way to Malacca, driving along the high way listening to The Rolling Stones the palm tree plantations, is it mathematical or dynamical sublime? Sorry for the Kantish question. The Rolling Stones played at the badminton hall in 1965 which is to say the The Rolling Stones played in Geylang. The Rolling Stones Live in Geylang! The two friends who went with you are dead. One of them, David an ex-cop spent the rest of his life as a full-time gambler, a hustler in the billiard saloon at the basement of Golden Mile. Now you are studying Golden Mile as an architectural phenomenon. We met him when he was jaywalking, crossing Jalan Sultan. He died of heart attack few years later.
The promise to be a man of the world - let’s return to the price of meat and related matters. Not to waste your life in a basement. The advertisement in the newspaper today inspired this provincial song, I must cite my reference. Fresh Buys, Available at 85* stores! Argentina Packham Pears – $ 1.95 US California Red Globe Grapes – 38 cents 100g China Winter Dates 350g -$2.25 per punnet Italy Angeleno Plus 1 kg-$2.95 per punnet China Yuan Huang Pears - $ 1 for 2 Spain Melons - $4.95 each China Spinach 250g - $1.10 per pack Fresh Grey Prawns (Stateless) - $1.08 100g Japan Sea Bass - $1.44 100g Australian Chilled Twee Bah – 98 cents 100g.
‘The Austrain misogynist, Otto Weininger, divided women into two categories: mothers and prostitutes. Similarly, men can be classed as fathers and profligates. The fathers again can be graded into two groups: the fathers of children and fathers of “men.” Since all the former can do is beget children, not bring them up, they still have something in common with profligates. The latter not only beget children but also try to educate them, in order that they may be genuine men in the future.’ - Lu Xun, ‘Random Thoughts (no. 25, 1918)’
If it is Roman numbers and Arabic letters, the price of four slabs of meat might be better. To braise (Lor), steam (Chway), because I am patient, grille (Peng), I leave no stone unturned, to pan-fry (Chien)? the oil, but I am profound, I like it deep-fried. We love to share our concern for the price of meat but not the meat. Vegetarians love to despise us and secretly hope we die from all kinds of cancer. But they are kinder, but they are kinder than us, they love animals.
We love the girls from our hometown, fair limbs, flesh-vegetables (bak chye) it doesn’t matter if they shave – their armpits, I mean. Or faint shadow of moustache on another adorable face. I am lying.
I met a German girl, and she told me about the hairy woes on her legs and arms. We discussed Buddhism (a popular topic amongst many Westerners now) and the hairlessness of monks and nuns, and some cunts in school.
I knock on the wall like a door, I forgot to tell you that I am strong, that I am so strong that the wall cracks instead of my bones. And hairlines are born to form a distorted map of the world. But I can’t see my province from it, knowing it is not about the cartographer who prefers pounding than drawing. I live on exaggeration.
I notice a trace of my blood on the wall, few drips, not a spot or a little red dot. ‘Blood on the sheets again’, white sheet but it could be the dark virgin I bought last night, or a menstruation blood of a careless loveless 45 year old. A 78 year old lady is watching the advertisement of Japanese sanitary pad on TV. But she doesn’t say much about the Japanese occupation in 1942. This song is not dedicated to women or to criticise mothers to be. I was born to be unfilial.
I am proud of my province with a name longer than the territory, the almost invisible territory on the world map. Not a problem of scale, 1:63,360, 1 inch = 1 mile. And 1:1000000 made it worse, 1 cm is 10km, pocket size map of Sydney is 1: 15000. Kannina, I failed mathematics in school.
I am proud of my province with a bastardised name, took a cat for a lion when we only have tigers, now dead tigers of Bukit Timah, now intimate friends of paper tigers. What prince, what Hindu, what traitor, what Sang Nila, what Utama, it only reminded me of the word Kannina. For a day, after school, my classmates substituted Kannina with Sang Nila and Sang Nila with Kannina in class. And Utama for conversation in Mandarin. What Srivijayan, what Indo, what Chinese envoy, what Chinese monk, I am not a prince with mythical power or intelligence. I only would throw myself into the sea, than the crown, because of my fear of drowning. What lanchiao lord of the sea! Whose grandfather!
In school, we were told that scientists of the West said tiger and lion are classified as Cats. On my way home I looked at the skinny stray cats around the void deck. One of them, I guessed female, was licking herself. I was reminded of some poses of showgirls in United States from a movie. Science lessons in school must be a protracted joke imported from Germany. I was told that huge rats used to bully their ancestors, some came from Persia and Siam, until the great William Farquhar came to save the day. Anyway, the cheaper beer here must be ordered by the names of cats, fierce cats, black cats, tigers and lions in different language or dialect. Tiger Beer, Leo, Singha…I did not do biology and hate to visit the zoo. The most dangerous species there is considered visitors.
The conversation ended but she forgot to hang up. She did not put the phone down properly. No click. It is landline. I hear the TV. Earlier she played me a song recorded on cassette tape through the phone. In return, to continue this potlatch of muffled sound, I played the acoustic guitar and sang out of tune for her. Scratching of strings is more prominent than the plucking. She is talking to her sister now. I hear screaming, chattering, screaming of joy, bliss and innocence compounded, and laughter and chattering of joy, bliss, unfounded excitement and potential hysteria compounded. I hear a man’s voice, the father, I guessed. Is that how she behaves at home? How she speaks to her family. I put the phone down. I hear it click.
First time out of the province, on our way to Malacca, driving along the high way listening to The Rolling Stones the palm tree plantations, is it mathematical or dynamical sublime? Sorry for the Kantish question. The Rolling Stones played at the badminton hall in 1965 which is to say the The Rolling Stones played in Geylang. The Rolling Stones Live in Geylang! The two friends who went with you are dead. One of them, David an ex-cop spent the rest of his life as a full-time gambler, a hustler in the billiard saloon at the basement of Golden Mile. Now you are studying Golden Mile as an architectural phenomenon. We met him when he was jaywalking, crossing Jalan Sultan. He died of heart attack few years later.
The promise to be a man of the world - let’s return to the price of meat and related matters. Not to waste your life in a basement. The advertisement in the newspaper today inspired this provincial song, I must cite my reference. Fresh Buys, Available at 85* stores! Argentina Packham Pears – $ 1.95 US California Red Globe Grapes – 38 cents 100g China Winter Dates 350g -$2.25 per punnet Italy Angeleno Plus 1 kg-$2.95 per punnet China Yuan Huang Pears - $ 1 for 2 Spain Melons - $4.95 each China Spinach 250g - $1.10 per pack Fresh Grey Prawns (Stateless) - $1.08 100g Japan Sea Bass - $1.44 100g Australian Chilled Twee Bah – 98 cents 100g.
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