Sky

Look at that sky, it’s gorgeous! An experience of the infinite, the sublime. When the sun pierces through the clouds, even the most obvious light suddenly turns into powerful strokes in pattern. The sun is nowhere and everywhere. Light comes into life. From 2D to 3D; from transperant to crimson red, the sky is more than a picture, it’s a touchable patchwork who draws you to her arms. I know I can never embrace the sky. But because of this irreducible proximity, my consciousness melts like a scope of ice-cream. Confronting such an unexplainable view, everyone is bound to be sentimental. Men have to learn the sentimental knowledge to be humble; women shouldn’t spoil it as the flaw of irrationality. Btw, what about the sky in Hong Kong?

P.S. I have to refute my question posed previously. ‘What do women want?’ is a irresponsible question indeed. Of course I can never see exactly what the others see. Me and the woman possess different spatio-temporal instances. We are diachronic. The questions presupposes a definite answer – a kind of knowledge. However, knowledge is always MY knowledge, knowledge which overlook women’s point of view. Again, my POV can never replace your POV. Apparently, language is a common device for us to communicate (to make common), to coincide POVs. But can I prove my concept of ice-cream is as exactly the same as the ice-cream which makes sense to you? Therefore we always, always have to repsect the Thing which we can’t quite understand. What is the Thing you would ask. But if it’s understandable, knowledge-able, it’s not the Thing anymore. 

After listening to Eason’s recent song, I can’t help asking the question:

What Do Women Want? —> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PG4Sas7tug0

The question itself is tricky because I can never see her from the position which she sees me. Even if I were able to read her mind, I could not know what she is going to ‘want’. I need a couple of hours to review her past as well as present in order to decide what she wants. But of course many of us read women’s mind in a more simplistic way. That is to read her as a certain type of women, or read her as reading yourself. Neither of them can help you to answer the above question.

It seems like the song glorifies women and lowers men. The women being glorified is a particular type of gothic woman. Alluring, mysterious, richly dressed and sensible. I am afraid to say that there is not many women are like that nowadays. In contrast the type of man it portrays is of thousands in Hong Kong. Men melt in front of beauty, staring at women like a spectacle, being fetishistic to skirt, and being ready to lie to women at anytime (those beautiful ones). So the song is more about the fantasy of a perfect woman and a re-affirmation of man musculinity, a musculinity which relies on the recognition from women.

Away from theory, try to see love through the lyrics. It says that men always love more than one woman before they die. In a sense woman has to be attractive in order to be loved twice, or more. But the song omits the point about how a woman feels when a man betrays her and love another woman. The title means The Knights of Women. What happen when the knight abandons his lord? How does the lord feel? Yes, the lord is very attractive. But there are thousand of attractive lords (women) which are waiting for a knight to creep into their bed. Men are devil but free; women are angel but chained.

Woman, being attractive and having thousand of knights under you are nothing but an obstacle to the realm of love. Attractive implies distance; power provokes class difference. It is no a coincidence that the song originates from a Chinese traditional idiom. With a traditional chinese title, the song is refer to a western gothic woman. Strange. After all the song is very fantastical.

And probably, more men than women shall be interested in this song. (1)

My time is your time and yours mine. Those four hours are always worth to spend in every weekend. When we feel surprised how fast the four hours have lapsed, such relationship should be blessed and celebrated. I am not altruist. Time is already not enough for us, how possible a minute more is squeezed for the other? My greatest gift for you is my time. No, it is not my time but always my-time-plus. What is the surplus of time? When one day you think your gift to a friend is nothing but time, dismiss it and your friend. But if your gift is my-time-plus, oh, you should never lose this person. S/he is re-defining time – timeless time – and you are free from the concept of time when being with such person. How lovely if we be oblivious to the tickling of the clock? With you it seems winding up the clock is stupid.Time suspends in the air like water freeze in the underground. The four hours halted reality. Most of the people – bad journalists especially – have a thirst  for reality. But we did not.

After my russian class and a boring methodology seminar I dragged back to the library. While I was thinking my day would be occupied by the research proposal again I bumped into my friend. You’ve  got a friend, I remind myself. Tonnes of greetings accumulated in my throat and could not help to splash out from my mouth. How’s everything? Recovered from your jetlag yet? I couldn’t tell the difference between sincerity and pretence. I did enjoy the chat very much. But were we really communicating? Were I not a joker who used humor to veil my loneliness? Suddenly, his cell rang. Probably his girlfriend was calling. My sensitivity alert my fond of decency. Take your time, that must be a important call. Indeed, he went away and left me alone in the cafe. I saw him through the window. His face changed completely when talking with her. A tired face was replaced by a passionate one. He was happy, dreadfully happy. I had another sip of my coffee and tried to occupy myself with the lecture notes spread on the table. I had better not be sentimental with the empty seat at the other side. Yet, my memory flashed back like pop-windows. Would I be happy if I were him? How many chances I missed in life? And how many more I am going to let go? I was frustrated whenever people ask me if I am happy or not. Aristotle says the meaning of life is to pursue happiness. I wonder what’s the meaning of being happy. Happiness in orgies is opposite to aisian romance; sadness in Palestine is not the same as failing an exam. If I live til 90, I still have around 70 years to find the answer. But I forgot my mind would have to cling to bureaucracy in the first half and start to decay in the other half. So I better think more now, and live more then…He ended his call with his tender voice, which I never have chance to enjoy. If I were not there, he would spend the whole afternoon with her. His face was too passionate for me now. He had to return to the friendly mode. I dismissed his awkwardness with humor. Then the clock struck 3:30pm.

Everyone is pathetically split. You are split, I am split, they are split and we are shitted! Father taught you freedom and mother taught you silence. Schools asked you to remember and city asked you to forget. At one time women are hateful, at other second they are innocently lovable. Men are adorable of their so called genius they fuck up in love all the same. Creatures irritably cold outside yet they can’t wait to kiss and caress you inside. We queue up automatically but we hate queuing up don’t we? My time is your time. Split time in to 365 tiny bits and share it to the others! What left for me? None! I like a free schedule but I am now filling up my fucking schedule until they crammed like sardines! We hate our shit and urine but they are ours aren’t they? Don’t you see your name wrtten on it! So as your hair. Seems anonymous, it’s not! Those hairy thingy on the floor is yours! Body/mind split is childish. Since how long ago have your mind and body been split for thousand times? They called it Schizophrenic, don’t they? If you cannot read this, congratulation. You are split! All the same, you are always a piece of completed puzzle. One see the self split only when s/he is shattered.

The Couple  

The bus was packed again. Having standed in the drizzling cold for half an hour, the queue dragged himself into the entrance. They were squeezed in the lower deck with faces opposite each other. The man had not been touching her body for few weeks. Even he felt strange when such a thought came to his mind. He forgot to love her, or more probably, he loved himself too much. A hand stretched out and touched the man. Don’t let me go. It was the first time she took the initiative. She felt terribly unsafe in the bus which packed like sardines. All windows were unopen. People in the bus seem used to this everyday stiffiness. Neither smiles or grimace found, like masks, their faces are dully interchangeable. Having said that, she tolerated. The man felt the warmth transferred from her hands. He was stunned by the warmth as it reminded of his freezing hands. How come your hand is so cold my dear, she said. The man could not locate her voice. All the same, facing the window, looking at the darkening street, he uttered few sympathetic excuses. No one speak their language in the bus. Their conversation, however trivial, is uncomprehensible to the others. She wanted to tell him how she loves him. But the man’s insincerity hindered her tongue. Please tell me the truth; there’s only you and I in the bus! The man was either insensitive or unbelievably decent. He knew very well how she thinks. But no matter how close they were, he could not help staying away from her. For god sake! The city is daunting; you and I are flood with sadness, he thought. I will drag her into my arms; kiss her feverishly; tell her my love is no less than hers to me. But still, his hands were as cold as the iron ceiling.

Everytime when their communication seemed stuck, she would drag herself into his chest. No more words but bodily gesture. She thought this time she could settle the scene by doing that again. Yet, the bus stopped. The interchangeable faces flowed out in zombied-pace. She took back her hand from the man and being jostled by the crowd, so as the man has to adjust his posture. Come sit with her, he said to himself. She looked awry. His hands were freezing and so as his everything. The man escaped her look and focused on the street. People were celebrating. They laughed, they sang, they screamed. If only he could jump out the bus and lose himself in the carnival over there. He could do nothing. No, not even a hiss to this overwhelming woman. At that night, the bus took much longer time before arriving the terminal. It’s a never-ending journey they. Not until another daylight comes, and the couple repeats themselves when another night returns.

Men living short has a cause; women dying young is not necessarily tragic. This week is taken back by composer Preisner. Thanks to Lamli and your enthusiasm in singing, the concerto returns again and again. These days I whistle it all the way from library to my flat. Louis said the film Double life of Veronique is about life and mission – one has to chooses either to live or fufill her artistic telent. Are we too greedy to crave for life and mission at the same time? Why the greatest artists in history are bound to live short? Had an artist be meticulous about her body and mind while living, could she still be a great artiist? And why artists are always more lovable after they became history?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e0PENbPmT7Y

PS. notice the camera angle. If the camera is the narrator, how this clip is being narrated? Do we see the heroin as the objective heroin? Or does the narrator let us look from the heroine’s eyes, thus enforing an perspective indentification? How the two camera angles lead the viewers to different psychological fantasies? More, the figure of the composer and the woman standing next to the heroine is very very strange. Something more to say about that. In short, art is an extremely narcissistic behavior which cannot accept any gazes outside the audience. You don’t really look at anyone when you are performing, do you? Art is mologism, narcissism.

If I choose to exhaust my body, I choose it. No one to blame. And me bears the entire sense of guilt.

Ten years gone, how have you been? I heard about you and the others and lives didn’t go very well. She was abandoned since I met her in her twenties, she was only valued under her friends’ tears. Was she remembered since then? Men she loves dislike her; no one treats her as competent. She looks innocent, but is she? Perhaps. But I remember she hated someone crazily. How close hatred is to the hell! I told you life is like a hell. Hatred brings up your double. Just imagine you encounter someone as evil as yourself one day when you open the door. It’s gonna be so uncanny, so horrible. But are we already seeing our double everyday, despite their different appearance? And she, the other she, got married few years ago, remember? They look so happy I thought. But is there really happy marriage? To use such a light adjective for marriage is almost unthinkable. Yes, she returns to him again. A few times a month, by random. Well it’s not. Usually he takes the initiative. How they love each other I dun know. But for sure her marriage will not sustain without his continuous interuption. And he over there, can’t miss him out can we? Womenizer. Is he still doing all sort of flirting after these years? His hair is turning white. See his talk and listen to his fahsion, you never know why women just fall to him. Yet it won’t last long. Probably after 5 more being cheated then his charm will wear off. Flocks of women were stabbed; he has not long to live either. The lonliness haunts him every night will be unbearable. Sitting in front of stacks of books and documents, working means nothing to him if man can love no more. Lastly, remember me? I knew too well about the bitterness of love. I successfully escaped. Jealousy, envy, hatred, disappointment, tears, fantasy, I managed to avoid everything, everything. I ended up remember only the bitterness… I told myself to embrace love again though I realize the choices are either just hell or a heaven-like hell…Life is about making decisions eh? What a variety! You know, I’d rather be immoral than making a choice…I can’t love anymore…I am intimidated, I am selfish, I am a scound…Excuse me for my…oh right, your husband is coming over here…what’s his name? He looks handsome. I guess he loves you more than you do? Look at him, he is overwhelmed by his love to you. Pity pity. Hope it’s not another tragedy. Audience is waiting. Let’s move on.

(Love) and Death

Am disturbed by love and death. Death is not far away at all – life is so unbelievably fragile. Years ago I learnt this word from the broken-glass logo on those cartoon boxes. Today the word vivdly exemplifies herself in human soul and flesh. Perhaps – perhaps to live here and now, or simply to exist at this moment, all we have to do is to lie: See the hell as heaven; see tears as drama; see evilness as our denominator. From now on to live happily is unthinkable without considering sadness – from family to friends; from love to death. Forget ethics, we can be dreadfully happy, dreadfully happy. Otherwise some of us are so indulged to be an ethical man. They are pitiful because they are always branded as the ‘good’ man yet can scarcely feel happy with their lives. The third kind is called the quasi-ethical man, who claims themselves as ethical but hardly does any good to the others. These quasi-ethical people thought they are kind-heart, hospitable and sypathetic. Actually everything they contribute to the others are motivated by their narcissistic ego. The quasi-man is countless in the city and hence the majority in population. Many of us live happily because we forgot how sad the world could be. To live humanely is to live under the call of mourners and their tears. Without understanding death, how can we be truely happy? Death shall not be read only as the physical death. Our eyes, our voices, our breath, our limbs, our soul, have they ever been alive? If we do not liven up our long deadly selves on Earth, how irresponsible we are to the death in grave? If we are not any good (ethical) but happy, shall we expect the others mourn for us when we look at them with our pair of curious eyes?

the Hell Triangle in life:

1. to work like hell

2. to respone like hell

3. to love like hell.