i’ve never experienced jet lag of this kind - my stomach cramps. i have nauseas. i lack appetite, and sleep has declared itself an enemy to me once day light disappears. breaking up with someone feels like a bubble bath compared to this shit
they say jet lag is your spirit not catching up with where you are. in that case, my spirit has refused to move all together. if i had to guess, i’d say it’s still sleeping on the thar desert, staring night after night by the kneeling camels, drinking stars…
coming home to venice after two months of being in china and india gave me culture shock. first, it was the way my cab driver drove - not only did he respected the concept of lanes, he moved at the speed of yesterday and yielded to every single pedestrians who took crossing the street as a show of slow parade! even a hindu cow gets a sense of urgency (sometimes) when they see an approaching car. and then the size of people (in height and width) right after i got off the plane was somewhat of a frightful sight that slowly melted into a silent amusement. and then, as i stood under the hot water pressure in the shower, i was flabbergasted by the working faucet. i’ve been washing out of a bucket and a scoop for way too long to miss a faucet. but it was at dinner that i found tears fighting its way out - my first of many-more-to-come fake chinese food. i couldn’t even make it through dinner without calling my aunt in guangzhou. it was as if hearing her voice could some how bring the taste of her 8hour brewed soup to my generic hot and sour soup. it was all too unbearable. why didn’t anyone warn me about this type of heart ache before?
it’s pass daybreak, and sleep is beginning to flirt with me. here i go retrieving to bed while the world is at play. i’ll go see the ocean when i wake up. i need to take my soul for a swim…
the overwhelming anti-china sentiment that’s gawking the media is near choking me to death. i am truly appalled by the grotesquely pervasive bias views that are oozing out of every major american news source, and i don’t even want to waste my breath counting the freaks that are so quick to throw fists in the air, shouting “TIBET!”, half of whom i am sure don’t even own a passport, let alone having the experience of life overseas. to me, this suddenly overpowering anti-china sentiment that’s spread across the globe feels like a frat house party that’s getting more belligerent by the hour. did the trend of protesting aginst your own country’s crime got old or something? because the last time i checked, the u.s of a is still occupying another country in the name of freedom and killing civilians every day. at least china would never sweet talk and call an invasion “a fight for freedom”
protesting the spirit of the olympics is absolutely futile. china did not invent the olympics, we are simply hosting this glorious event. and we are doing the best as any party host should be. if you insist on wearing funeral attire to a party, be my fucking guest. but your silly efforts are, nonetheless, plausible. especially the sheer audacity of going as far as boycotting all things made in china - that one gets me especially high! because when people make cute little threats like that, i am unsure if i should laugh until i shit my pants or just shit my pants in disbelief of your attempt at such pretentious 2minute fad. oh, but, of course you can afford not to use shit from china, because this is the land of freedom where you can afford $5 starbucks concoctions while buying $3 plastic water bottle that claims to deliver clean water in sudan.
meanwhile, i go to youtube and watch the livelihood and the excitement that’s buzzing in china, not that i am particularly interested at the game, but it’s the commotion of this kind that makes me proud to be chinese and i can’t wait to be back in my city in three weeks
last week i went to pick up my renewed passport at the chinese consulate. the mood in that crowded and austere room is always unforgiving. i’ve been to a good number of consulates in los angeles for visa purposes, and the chinese consulate wins by far in population, hectic mannerisms, and variety of spoken dialects. (the UK consulate feels like a spa in comparison). standing in the line behind the pick-up window, i heard a man grumblings behind me very persistently. and the word “stupid” was the most pronounced word i could hear. agitated, i turned around to ask “what is so stupid??!” i was then facing a man about my height but much skinnier, with olive skin tone. he was slightly hunched and his eyes fixed on the pick-up window with great disapproval
“they are giving visas to everyone! that’s stupid!”
“what is so stupid about that?”
“they are giving visas to everyone! they only want to make money. that’s the only thing chinese care about. they just want to make money”
confused by his complaint, i asked again
“what exactly are you upset about? do you not want people to enter china?”
“why do people want to go to china. china is shit! nothing good there”
i stood back, as if to get a broader view of the idiot that i have engaged myself in conversing with. i have not ran into anyone so refreshingly ignorant that i actually began to smile in amusement and i said “wow! you are quite different and ignorant. i’ve never met anyone with such an opposing view to china”
offended as a grown man should, he cut me off and protested “shut up! i go to china once a week. don’t even try to tell me about china!”. “tell him about china” was far off my mind at the moment. i was actually interested in his distinct hatred toward my country. what makes one hate china? and how do you hate china, exactly? i’d imagine one does so by avoiding every section of the news paper daily, and some how managing to be a consumer exclusively to domestic products. it’s not an entirely impossible life style, just a hassle one at that. i have a few vegan friends, and they are a fine proof that no life style is too inconvenient
i had understood that the chinese consulate was not a suitable environment to be a smart-ass, so i turned around and waited for my turn to the pick-up window. a man of an unknown nationality was blatantly calling china stupid out loud, and yet everyone behind him, and in front of me seemed to be too callous to bother defending their motherland. did these wise chinese knew something i didn’t? or was this some kind of “the meek shall inherit the earth” bullshit?
still overwhelmed by curiosity, i turned around to ask one final question, this time with a pretended smile
“what country are you from?”
maybe he was devastated from being called a refreshing idiot, or maybe he hadn’t anticipated a challenge to his faulty conviction, or maybe he was suddenly appalled by my chinese nationality which he must deemed shit, since “china is shit”. with his face turned away from my direction, he raised his chin, made a shifty glare at me out of the corner of his eyes, and bestowed his final words: “shut up! that’s none of your business!”
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recent trackings: ::::FILMS (with heart):the violin, persepolis, the diving bell and the butterfly, tuvalu, vengo :::::ART exhibitions: elizabeth mcgrath’s “the incurable disorder” and graciela iturbide’s “danza de la cabrita” :::::BOOKS: life of pi, on ugliness
i haven’t been to a concert in almost three months, and i am suffering an internal itch
margarita asked as we were laying out raz’s bones to dry, we had playfully rearranged his bones into different caricatures. we both felt raz’s spirit spinning around, and i was unsure if what we were doing upset it. but i knew that when my spirit leaves my body, i would want my bones to be collected by the one i love. i’ve been deeply inspired by ron pippin’s current exhibition by my house, and ideas for new projects have been brewing in my head for a while. during our walk to the farmer’s market today, i took margarita to see the exhibition. all the enigmatic art pieces finally propelled margarita to commit to digging up raz, who’s been buried after he was hit by a car nearly 5 years ago. it was not easy work, the digging. i had to sever roots that were intertwined with the sweaters that occluded raz under a mini tree. i felt a pinch every time i yanked one loose. i enjoyed digging my hands into the soil, sometimes coming into encounter with a struggling worm. although exhausting, the process provided a sense of calm and wonder. with all the bones that rests in my palm, it draws near the proximity of after life. we spend our whole life in the direction of death, and the only audience missing in witnessing the grand finale is ourselves. it isn’t death that i’ll regret, it’s not recognizing the body that finally frees me that saddens me
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my favorite christmas present. my little guy. what a pugnacious expression and a display of fierce mannerism. i salute him!
jeff’s proclaimed connoisseurship on nusrat fateh ali khan makes me smile every time i hear it. i am not sure what i love more- his appropriate cocky attitude about his knowledge, or his selfish attitude about not wanting to turn everyone onto him
if you are an irascible motherfucker like me, you will understand the inconsolable rage experienced when a parking meter maid places a parking ticket on your car window as your sprint like a trained olympian to rescue the situation by feeding the newly expired meter. but these fuck-holes are so numbed and callous that they simply drive away in a hurry, when they can easily retract that undeserved ticket. but they have not lost all feelings as fear is strongly prominet. their apparent fright is laughable if you pay attention to how nimble their nasty work is “planted” down on your window. they know too well that if caught in the act, they will invariably suffer some fantastic verbal or physical assault. and in a few incidences around the country (too bad not often enough), these assaults have resulted in their death
i have the utmost despise for people who chose to make a living by doing something that lacks everything from integrity, decency, skills to ambitions. i had yet another dreadful encounter with these assholes tonight. i cited some demonic remarks at the parking maid as he hopped on his go-cart to continue on his exhilarating job. i had a hard time balancing myself and finding my center for the rest of the evening during my french studies. my friend suggested that we go for a drink to relax because i was talking all kind of exorcism shit long after the incident. i regretted his unwanted departure; i regretted his fast fleet; i regretted not picking up the nearest dull object and jamming it into his fucking eye
but as i was delving in my unspeakable ill wishes upon these degenerates tonight, i suddenly realize that my contempt for them are interchangeable for what can easily be viewed as a hidden respect. there will be times when the existences of somethings are so hideous that the only appropriate reaction you can grant it is morbid admiration. much like a pile of dog shit that is so extravagant in size, color variations and shape that you involuntarily stop to marvel in its offensive visual, and yell out “goddamn! look at that piece of shit!”
i imagined myself as a parking meter maid, and i imagined my daily routine, and my public battles with angry victims every day. i became exhausted just in my imaginations alone. i came to understand that their job require so much callousness and courage, yet their shitty little go-cart fleets are completely contradicting to the courage needed. to lack and vanquish courage at the same time - i mean, that it self is completely praise worthy! the next time i am unlucky enough to face another confrontation with a parking meter maid, instead of screaming out to him on how i wish his kids be kidnapped and then maimed; or scream out at him the horrendous ways he will crash and die, or any other crazy blasphemes i am able to scramble up in my moments of rage, i will simply salute and thank them for the pricey ticket, smile, and say “you are truly a remarkable piece of shit. may real ambitions of life descend upon you soon!”
it was foggy again last night. i took a walk by the ocean. venice has never looked so cheerless, yet wonderfully nostalgic. there was not a soul to be found on the street. i imagined walking in a sea of people in the smothering fog, and only recognizing someone walking pass by when you come to a close proximity, and then disappearing again into the mist. i started running wild on the grass under the ghastly palm trees that looked like phantoms in the mist. i liked the squishing sound of my boots against the wet grass
a beach bum saw me and yelled: “that looks exhausting!”
Peer Raben - Concerto Alevta (Film Mix) Massive Attack - First Killing Zbigniew Preisner - Decision
梅艷芳(Anita Mui) - Jungle Drums Connie Francis - Siboney Zhang Yun Xian & Hou Li Jun - Shuang Ma Hui Caetano Veloso - Cucurrucucu Paloma Shigeru Umebayashi - Yumeji`s Theme
梁朝偉 (Tony Leung) - “if I had an extra ticket, would you come with me” Nat King Cole - Quizàs, Quizàs, Quizàs Xavier Cugat - Maria Elena
周璇 (Zhou Xuan) - 花樣的年華 Angela Gheorghiu - Casta Diva
關淑怡 (Shirley Kwan) - 忘記他 Caetano Veloso - Michelangelo Antonioni Georges Delerue - Julien et Barbara Xavier Cugat - Perfidia Astor Piazzolla - Milonga For Three
the sunday flea market on fairfax and melrose street is comparable to a ritual ground for la hipsters. it will induce extreme irritation and nausea if you are not prepared for that kind of scene. nevertheless, it was unfailingly titillating to witness this dismal crowd as they yield to the unjustifiable price tags, completely disillusioned by their own enthusiasms that is primarily expressed through the repetition of “that is so cute! that is so cute! that is cute. that is cute. that is so cute”…
the vendors on site obviously know their target very well, as they seem to declare the prices for wanted items with much guarded pride, a gaudy tactic to intimidate you from any attempts of bargaining
“how much do you want for this wallet?”
“100 DOLLARS!”
(where the fuck am i? at a flea market or an out-door gucci?!)
and they don’t even bother looking at you when answering. they might as well just add the word “asshole” to the end of their response, a befitting delightfulness that would make their salesmanship more refreshing. as an aristocrat of all things thrift, i was not to be mocked by these silly vendors mistaking me to be another trend follower. repeating the price in a loud and ridiculous questioning tone, followed by throwing down the items with great disgust became a new practice as i roamed around the flea market. by the time i found an exit, i had re-crafted a pretty decent theatric of what i call “when being mocked, mock right back“. it’s the simple act of sneering at the vendor as you make a disapproving hiss, throw down the ridiculously priced item, and walk away with an elegant cavalier. fortunately for me, this skill is an innate trait in everyone from guangzhou
// he’ll teach you how to pick and choose
and how to throw a blade
//
screen cap from”i’m not there”
i have been listening to: the valerie project (quite an astonishing album) i got fucked up by:DIVA (at the nuarts) / EXILS / I’M NOT THERE i just met: an aging and incredibly humble artist, harry blitzstein, who is living the ultimate life of an artist. he has his own gallery where he exhibits and sells his own paintings. he works in the studio behind the gallery during the day time, and occupy the gallery at night. i caught him sitting in the back, listening to the radio alone. we chatted for a long time, before i went to see an acoustic performance by brad laner in a little book store i am reading: “beethoven was one sixteenth black” - nadine gordimer, “the diving bell and the butterfly” - jean-dominque bauby (before i catch the film) i am marveled by: cate blanchette’s fierce intelligence and her androgynous performance in “i’m not there” i am excited for: the balkan beat box show, portishead’s new album!
it frustrates me to no end that everyone and their dog knows “brokeback mountain” and “lust, caution”, yet, when you ask them about “happy together” and “in the mood for love“, their response is bleakly ignorant
(the only thing i appreciated from “crouching tiger and hidden dragon” is cheng chang’s mongolian ger and wardrobe)
films and music soundtrack that gives me the fucking chills, versus movies that makes a good time filler. art vs. entertainment… come the fuck on, everyone. come the fuck on
i don’t dare watch wong kar wai’s film with anyone i care about, because i know too well that my entire value for the friendship will depend entirely on their responses. although rarely i have gone crazy and watched wong kar wai films with people who are not familiar with his work, and invariably suffered the detrimental consequences. such was the case on friday night when my mom asked to see “in the mood for love”, which she had forgotten that i had already shown her, and that she had already showed disinterest afterwards. i told her i won’t put it on because she already said she didn’t like it. but after much insisting on her part that she’s never seen the film, i put it on for her, fully bracing myself for her dreadful reciprocation for the film (but holding onto faint hope that she might “get it” the second time around)
detecting much befuddlement from her half into the film, i slipped into a frantic animated mode and began to explain all the importance of the movie (with all my limbs), pointing out everything she failed to appreciate, preaching the film like i was shouting the message of allah from dome of the rock! incidentally, in between all my despair and useless efforts, tony leung’s line at that very moment was “i realize sometimes you can’t force upon things. your only choice is to give up”
(i also showed her “harold and maude” last night, to which she responded afterwards “oh, this is a funny kind of movie”)
my mom is here visiting me for a week. the difference between us unfolds every second like an impatient wave. i can’t stop them from crushing upon us. it’s scary, frustrating, and just plain fucking sad to learn some of my mother’s political, social, and personal views in the world that we both exist in. the other day when she glimpsed into the kitchen of a very popularized chinese dumpling house, she saw that it was all mexicans cranking out dumplings. she pointed at them and made some upsetting remarks, and in a reflex response, i shouted in chinese to reminded her the demographics of where she was geographically… these are just few of the many confronting situations that i constantly come face to face with my mom. most times it ends with her in silence that entails much bitterness and unevenness. and with me in tremendous amount of guilt. but, at the end of the day, she is my mother. and i need to accept her and be her friend and daughter, despite our polar opposite attitude towards everything, which as i’ve just found out last night, includes her definition of a “single parent” and her hypocritical views on homosexuality. i need to remind myself that she’s just like most people that i have a hard time agreeing with, except the little twist of a difference in that she gave me birth, and that unlike most people that i piss off and hold judgments towards me, she forgives and forgives….
although no actual cruelty and violence of LRA are visually depicted in this documentary, the brave children who profess their unfathomable horror stories to the camera makes this an extremely emotionally difficult documentary to watch. rose, a 13-year old child victim, speaks with a soft and raspy voice as she retells the moment an LRA member uncovers the pot lid, forcing her to identify her mother’s decapitated head. “at that moment, i thought i had lost my mind”…. unlike other children, she doesn’t cry when she relives her nightmares as she tells us her story, her gaze distant and her voice emotionally depleted. she leans against the brick wall, her body long and graceful, and she says softly “i just want to go to sleep. i remember my parents when i sleep. i see them in my dreams”. but when she is rehearsing her songs and her dances, she smiles and she is shy, and she laughs like a child who never had her innocence stolen. and like her, the two other focused children of the film who share similar and worse tragedies are able to restore and heal through music. they put their all into the bwola dance (traditional ritual dance), they strive to be the best in the dancing competition. they dance to be giants, they dance to be free, and they dance to be children. this documentary film ravished me. i sobbed, i smiled, i cheered, and i stumped along when they danced. (and it’s terribly true - the poorest people make the best beats) it’s uneasy to leave the theater knowing well that although these children live in 24 hour protected camp, they are constantly in danger of being abducted. but knowing that these children have told their most intimate and dark stories to us, and just like the rest of us, it is through music that they are saved, it makes me feel like we’ve made a promise to each other. we are closer
i am one to always ask in absolute curiosity when i come across people who dismiss music as something of a leisure luxury - how do you live without music?!
“she lives in a house
that’s way back off the road
there’s a man with a lantern
and he carries her soul
a coal stove and a bed
a skillet and a hound
she drove a camel through a needle
in this sinking boardwalk town
she’s my black market baby
she’s my black market baby”
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original photography by dennis ramsey
i took my bones out for a walk in the thick smothering fog last night. Or rather, my bones took me out for a walk in the thick and smothering fog last night. No, no…it was the thick and smothering fog that called us out last night. i wish the fog was a regular visitor at night. such a mystic and untouchable god. where does it go night after night when it’s not bewitching our consciousness?
“If a film were to exist in which the breadth and flux of a creative life could be experienced, a film that could open up as oppose to consolidating what we think we already know walking in, it could never be within the tidy arc of a master narrative. The structure of such a film would have to be a fractured one, with numerous openings and a multitude of voices, with its prime strategy being one of refraction, not condensation. Imagine a film splintered between seven separate faces — old men, young men, women, children — each standing in for spaces in a single life.”
this is the “concept proposal” todd haynes sent to bob dylan for “i’m not there” that determined the fate of the project
art: dali at lacma, camille rose garcia at mkgallery films: the darjeeling limited, taste of cherry, the river (jean renoir), control concerts: do make say think books: doris lessing’s “the diary of a good neighbour by jane somers”
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time is shrinking in my world. i am going to sleep later and later each night and being later and later to work every day. there’s too much i want to consumed my head with but i waste my life away by trading my time for money… fuck! something is taking over me and i am going along with the fast motion. i meet people i am not suppose to meet yet; i discover things i haven’t the time for it yet; i shoot myself out to be in positions that i am not ready for it yet…. but, isn’t that exactly how life is suppose to be? the perfect timing always bring along stale wind. i prefer wrong timing and opening the wrong doors
i am either too proud or too humble these days, there doesn’t seem to exist a ground for modesty. friends ask how i spend my time (most can’t even grasp how i don’t possess a tv) and what i do when i stay home. people who ask such questions have not yet found a way to be content by themselves or know how to occupy their time without constant mindless chattering and company of another. simply too afraid to be alone or accompanied by insecurity when in their own company. i was eating at a restaurant the other day when the girl sitting by herself not far from me, obviously uncomfortable by her aloneness, retreated to speaking into her cellphone during her entire meal. i was not going to suffer through her anti-intelligent monologue for an unknown amount of duration, so i asked her to shut the motherfuck up. not that i had the hierarchy to make such an impossible request, but it was sheer exasperation that compelled me to act nasty. she resorted to whispering into her phone instead of speaking in normal volume for the rest of the time. she simply didn’t know how to be by herself….how can someone be so uncomfortable in being alone in the crowd is beyond me. the absurdities that insecurities bring forth are unbearably dismal sometimes. and why can’t people focus on one function at a time anymore? why can’t people take a walk without talking on the phone anymore? why can’t people just fucking walk? it’s as if they are lost when left to enjoy something without a distraction to take away the purity of the moment, it’s as if they have a reflex to escape the drumming of their own heart, it’s as if they are afraid of hearing their own laughter
i am so tired of walking among these fucking wimps
most memorable halloween?
when i first came to america, my ESL teacher’s two daughters took my russian friend and i out for trick or treating. they painted me as a cat. i spoke maybe 20 english words then, and i was told to say “trick or treat” but i hadn’t understand that it was three words, so i said “trikotreet” from door to door…. the best part was i had no idea what the shit this whole business was about, really. i just remember how cold it was that night and wanting to go home
halloween custom this year?
an insect queen (dispatcher)
a boy in my french class tonight asked if that was me playing the maracas on stage at devendra banhart’s show last week. i laughed and laughed. small world indeed. here’s me dancing behind devendra in between the mass hysteria
“…but it’s dance music, you can’t sit down”
there aren’t enough hours in a day…either that or i am finally sleeping through the night like a new born
Around the world on his own steam: Briton Jason Lewis circles the globe using only human power, a 46,000-mile odyssey that took 13 years
“The idea was to be able to travel through countries, meet people, experience culture. I suppose it was part physical challenge and part the human-powered element, to be able to travel slow enough to experience culture at a very grass-roots and grounded human level…”
this spider. it was so magnificent and beautiful and graceful, i felt the most peace when i stared at it during sun set, outside catherine’s door. i must’ve taken 1,203 photos of its majesty. it remained undisturbed and seductive
floating in the waves today, arms stretched, toes wiggling. birds and dolphins swam 20 feet away from me. i stared straight into the sun, and i remembered that feeling so vividly. i tilted my head until i saw mountains upside down
sometimes i forget how strong i am, until my friends remind me of my strength. sometimes, i forget i am someone else’ hero
Let’s play. Okay, I’m a famous pianist. If you’re a famous pianist, and I cut off your arm… then what will you do?
I’ll become a famous painter. And if I cut off the other one, what will you do?
I’ll become a famous dancer. And if I cut off your legs, then what?
Then I’ll become a famous singer. And if I cut off your head, then what?
Once dead, my skin will become a beautiful drum. What if I burn the drum?
I will become a cloud and take on any shape. And if the cloud dissolves, what then?
I will become rain and produce a harvest of wars! You win. I’m going to miss you when you’re gone.
