on we must

in
...and I'm losing my words little by little, tripping over the verbs and fumbling with the greater adjectives. This is truly a strange life, a battle between two spectrums and worlds. These alphabetical thoughts on the tip of my fingers, trace back to abstraction of the symbols. Yet here is a curtain, ladies and gentlemen, between these worlds of mine, of ours. Here's the grand curtain of our lives, of faces and customs and thoughts bonded. In the end, all I have are these actors of mine, who speak of different tones, different thoughts, but most of all, different shapes of things that form our lives.

This is our lives. This is my life. 不管是中文英文还是鸟语。I believe language is language, and the language of sense and sentiment is here inside my head. I have two actors and I will make the best of it as I can. I will make them talk, converse, debate, discuss, argue, fight, make love, make hate, they will meld to one form and I will control them as my own ligaments. And so will you, my nouns, my verbs, my adjectives and adverbs, follow me on this grand adventure. Will you be patient when neglected and scream when called? Will you not be lost? Most of all, will you not be lost? Will you heed and tend and be?

Here it is, an exercise in English to regain lost dreams.

The world is full of strange peoples and people strangers. I am no more than a pawn at the foot of your greatness, but I aim to conquer your reign. Grandiose words are diluted thoughts. Tell me if I fail. Tell me if I fail. Am I different in this alphabetical realm? Do I regain the muscle of vocabulary of this great foreign tongue? I am smarter, braver, more worthy? Or are my words full of shit? Are my words bloated and unscathed, or have they grown with the likes of Chinese literature? Are my words renewed?

The truth is, I have fallen in love with a world that is utterly, utterly mine, but what world can trully be mine without the reign of language? I'm all tone and colloquial in Chinese. I'm only wide eyed and poetic in Chinese. I have no punch and no foundation and no idioms and no proverbs. Does that make me free from the boundaries of sentence structure? Or am I stuck here in a state of private naivete? Truth is, I need more words, and the only way to gain it, my dear, is to bite on them, digest them, make them cells of my body. This is the only way.

Words are the only things left we have.

But Jesus Christ, what am I suppose to do with this. I seek simple things and a simple living, but instead I am handed with a gift and a vain-driven duty to use it for the greater good of bloody mankind. But I am made of insecurity and sanity, I'm not high not listening to Johnny Cash and not drowning myself in the wine of literature. So pray thee, where does that leave 21-year-olds? Pray thee, where do we go from here? Do I take advantage of gifts and curses or do I surrender to doubt? Am I great or am I only good? And if I am only good, am I able to sharpen good to great. And even if I am great, am I able to sharpen great to use?

Hail to the geniuses. Hail to the suicides and madness and heroin induced inspirations. Hail to the artists who sacrifice their sanity for ours. I am not one. I can only hide behind the gauze of big words and pretend. My god why is everything reduced to drama and tension in this language. Can I not speak of simple things? What is this rotten stage I have wrought for myself. Let's see your words roll... let's see them in truer simpler forms. Could you do it for me?

I loved the way cement dust smelled on my hand. When all the grayer particles clung to skin to create of web of foreign surface, I feel nine yet again, as when we made mud pies and climbed trees in our skirts. She was all wistful while I made cartwheels, "look! kids who grew up in America know how to do everything." I simper and say nothing, because I wear America as an expensive jacket purchased on a whim, except it's the only jacket I have left to protect bare skin. These kids of mine are made of stars and diamonds. These kid of mine I love as I love treelined skies and masses of bicycles. Sometimes I wish I were just one of them, suffering their anger and laughing their joy. Sometimes I wish I didn't have so many eyes and so many ways. Who am I now that I am what I am? A lost little girl scratching at times she never had, bitter and embroiled and absolutely in love with just the pieces she had regained. The devils speak of a paradise regained, and I am no more than a bastard child from hell.

妈的为什么用英文写东西感觉像别人的声音似的。Fuck the world, except for you, because I love you. Go teenage... damn it, young adult angst.

proxified

in
Well, China blocked LJ. Here I am with proxy. Proxies pain in the ass. All is good. Don't delete journal thanks. See you next year. Here is entry from eons ago.

Well, I don't know, lately I'm unsure of everything, especially writing (because, apparently, that is what I do now). I really do get a convulsion of fear when I read a good, eloquent English essay by a Chinese person who can write a better, brilliant essay in Chinese. I really do, it's a cross between jealousy and the fear of mediocrity after all. But we won't talk about that, that's something that will probably hunt us for the rest of our lives, so before the dead end, I've rather enjoy the ride.

I have to admit though, I am infatuated with the elitist subculture of artists, designers, technocrats, and music freaks... really, the non-glitter non-gauze all glossy white i-pod colored homemade toys make me nervous... and that's about it. In life, I've come to realize (after piano lessons, art lessons, dance lessons, dreams of becoming a mathematician, say wahh, yeah for about a second) that I simply DO NOT LIKE TO DO ANYTHING other than writing. I like art fine, but I really hate art when I have to draw it, read it, or study it. I love music and everybody who knows me thinks I'm a music nerd unless they are a bigger one (likely), but I really can't do too much music like some of the impressive kids I know. I would simply explode with the xxxxx number of gigabits of music and a wikipedia full of knowledge of musical history blee blahh blueee. The problem is, the problem is, the problem is...... writing is like happiness, you have to write about something, like you have to find something to be happy about. The problem is, I only like writing, and nothing else supplemental to this life like ART, and MUSIC. The problem is... I find myself bending in the direction of writing a lot about supplemental life lately. It's not bad, I mean, it's better than writing papers, but I'm also kind of a stubbornly passionate perfectionist, and I just have to find things I care not 79 but 97 percent about.

I have to love it wholly, torridly, madly, truly, deeply, haha bring back the Aussies....

In conclusion, I want to only write about...

mushrooms,

mushrooms from now on I will write about only.

I've taken on a rare liking of mushrooms lately, along with Christian Bale. Mnnn... Christian Bale and fungus, how can a girl's life be any better?

When she finishes the god unending translations. You know, it's one thing to write, but whole other thing to translate. One of them is hell in heaven, the other is heaven hell in hell.

清清读诗

in

Met a very poetic poet in HK. He's all long-haired, soft-expressioned, and hard-pressed lips from years of semi-exile. In his poems he writes about the motherland and the women he's loved, romanced, poeticized. And I'm liking his poetry because it's got side-by-side translation, and such good translations where curse can be translated to stain. And they all think he's pessimistic but I'm still romantic enough to believe he's idealistic. So I'm copying his poem in my little brown notebook because it is a good poem. It might be the first poem I liked, well, second.

A Painted Scene

I know very well the vocabulary of table talk Dignity dished by charitable forks and cups while a word-river pours from the mouth Humanity, a tiny species Simplifies under the vault of heaven Into a heap of patterned clay urns

Begging power from holy messages Stringing suspense between book pages An Abyss of thought Overdone with never an ending

And well, Hong Kong really is a strange place. It's like New York's Chinatown 100times cleaner, more developed, more Cantonese, more overwhelming. Well, Hong Kong is a funny place and I'm not loving it in a way that I think I'll probably like it after I get used to it. Well, Hong Kong makes me like New York less and Beijing more. Well this place being the love child of Canton, England and Japan both amazes me and makes me wince. Except my eye is swollen again so I'm hating life. And I also hate life because I'm trapped in the south... but I try to salvage wasting time with interviewing, meeting with friend of friends...

kimi wa boku no mono datta~ ima wa dare no mono datta? (you were my thing, whose thing are you right now?)

I'm pretty much done with traveling though. You won't find me in Tibet or Europe with a backpack ever. You always realize there's no place like home when you leave it, and I'm missing Tianjin like I miss the cold when I'm wearing a T-shirt under a perfect blue sky. I miss the dust and the bikes and er yi and xue hai and the market. Floating about these couple of weeks (has it been two? Only two? Feels like a lifetime) has been fun. I ate a lot of things, walked a lot, complained a lot, been happy a lot, been exhilarated twice (although those were the result of emails~ shoo).

I can't wait to go back home. I can't wait see my brothers~ and eat a lot~ and watch lots of telly~ and read a lot~ and study a lot of English and bloody Chinese~ and when I'm done I'll be off to Beijing starting intimidating and exciting jobs. Friends say I'm too gracious, and meself I don't know whether it's the independence from the years in America (oooh, that makes it sound so past tense, how sweet) or the distance Libras retain, but I am in fact incredibly gracious+thankful to some incredible people I've met in China. So that's that... that's to the boys who really do sleep at 4:57am in the morning and get up at 2:00pm unless there's a 9:00am presentation, that's for his toothy grin and flashy dreams. I can't wait to work with these people. I've waited my whole life for smart, ambitious, hip, good-looking (yes, I'm sorry, I'm serious) people. I know I'm vain, and I know we are vain, but as long as we know who we are, I bet we'll be okay.

We'll take it on as we go love.

snarl

in

never lonely. fucking tired. traveling should be a week-long deal. miss tianjin. miss beijing, too.don't know how to write, anymore. that's in both languages, and latin. was in yunnan. now in shenzhen. average age here is 26, and funnily enough, that's the age of the city itself. want to say, i am northern-er, born, bred, be. i like brother... this one too, he's good, gooder, better than i judged. he's crazy, but, good. hong kong next. don't think i will like. but, would like to see victoria harbor, and kowloon, because he wrote a story once, set there. he's kind of an asshole though, now that i reminisce. wasn't he?

interview @ hong kong with My Little Airport. Heart+Nervous+NeedtoPrepare. want to go back to beijing and work with the Joyn:Viscom guys on their getitloud exhibition like, now.

Inside the Calm

in

I think I've grown up a lot and realized I have a lot of growing up to do. But I kind of kind of wish I can just rot away on the couch watching soap operas... The past two weeks of exams and papers has been... ironic. I came to China and all I wanted was friends. I wanted them cool kids--the music herder, concert goer, the magazine player and photographer. Classes were hard and easy and show up to get by. Now that I have radio station friends, and photographer friends, and, course, can't forget, hairdresser friends, I'm swamped with so much work I can only turn down invites. Some type of karma at work, I feel like. But I can't forget when he said while we were all chillin at his place, he said, "dou shi yi jia ren ma" (we're all family). He's the genuine type that I wish I could keep, but now I'm seriously wonder when I'll ever get to see him again. Then there's everyone's favorite sponge tomato, she says, "I'll be thinking of you Qing Qing," and I want to say, "sponge tomato, I wish I known you since 1997," but we have 2008, and we have future, and we have each other's everychanging MSNs... and we have, what do we have, I don't even know. I only know the next couple of days is hell busy that I kind of, again, want to just rot away on the couch.

But I have Art-School's entire discography, and I have a lot of things to do, and I have a lot of regrets and guilt to comb through, and I have a lot of wishes, and I have a lot of people that I wish I could put in a pocket. Instead, it's all going to be just one place, one word, one fest, it's called midi, and I hope everyone goes, and I hope to bump into all the Tianjin kids, and that is all... and I'm essentially afraid of life, so afraid, that the thought of crawling back to ohio has occured to me more than just once.

What's going on what's going on what's going on with this world, But more importantly, why aren't you writing? When this is all over, when you can breathe again, my dear, I need you to... listen to ART-SCHOOL.

stafford

in
Victor,Fly Me To Stafford
歌手：my little airport     专辑：在动物园散步才是正经事
This is the last song I write for you This is the last night I think of you Your name is Victor Ching How do you do

I phoned you this morning you couldn't hear me I sent you letter you couldn't receive It's my favorite game but I have changed

It's too late to say I miss you Victor Ching And you are on your way to Stafford in UK I know it's too late to say I'm fond of you You've got a girl from Singapore Who you didn't like before

I love you when you no longer love me I need you when you no longer need me You wanted me, but you have changed already

It's too late to say I miss you Victor Ching And you are on your way to Stafford in UK I know it's too late to say I'm fond of you You've got a girl from Singapore Who you didn't like before

S

in

Dear莎， I have started, written, rewritten, deleted, started this entry again about three times. My English is evidently deteriorating, and I may soon have a better reason to write in LJ other than whining. I may need it to keep a language. Ai~```` why on earth do you choose to want two languages?

To your text, I am with my belated reply: I am good.

Today I went to Ray's place, he's the one I mentioned about: 300GBs of music, too many CDs, EPs, LPs, records, obscure-magazines-lying-around to count, smokes, a great great kid (right and who's older haha). I think the reason I like these artsy Chinese kids so much (I mean, other than they are Chinese) is that they don't let art consume them. One might say great art is born out of circumstances that requires... shall we say a little bit of madness and genius, but I think for friends, I like 'em with ambition, a good head on their shoulders, a day job and daydream. Ray's day job is a sound engineer/editor at the radio station. He's slick with all musical details and hates karaoke because he inhales and exhales sound everyday. He knows his American rock n' roll more than most Americans. He's a good good guy. Two more friends came by later, Dai and 97, we listened to a lot of music  and watched a lot of music videos, short films, cool commericials. Ray exclaimed during one CM that "all we can do is imitate (China imitate the west), all we can do is imitate..." Dai is a cutie. She works at the radio as a host and knows her shit, but when she calls her mama she sounds like an adorable 10-year-old kid. As for 97, I think I'm secretly in love with his soul. There's something about this kid that strikes a chord, something familiar something warm something nice. He's a photographer/animator with good eyes, blackeyes. I like listening to the three of them talk. They are bold and fresh kids. They comment on a lot of things I don't know, drop a lot of names I don't know, bring up concepts I don't know, speak Chinese words that I don't know... I feel a bit of the age and culture and vocabulary gap, but I love listening to them mold concepts and draw out thoughts and... I think I like one-on-one conversations in Chinese because I can draw the borders closer to what I am familiar with.

After Ray's place I went to a bar to meet up with another friend with a set of friends that I never met. Struck up a conversation with one of them about Chinese media, western media, media in general... and so this is my life... talking reading playing writing absorbing... trepidating.

Lately, I am getting more and more unsure of this future thing, of what I can do, of what can I do? I almost don't want to leave Tianjin, because it's too hard to start over, it's too tiring to start over..........

LifeisLove. Howareyou?

burn

in

I wanna burn myself to light up your cigarette.How about this. It starts with a spark, then flares up. A flame grows into a fire. I would shout. I've got not too much shining before I'm out. Only a few seconds you might wanna do it fast. You might wanna do it fast.

stole this from jing

absolutely neccessary

in

"wait, they don't love you like i love you." There are moments when you realize you're just trying too hard, this is one of those moments. I always find myself in the same situation, different locale, different people, same situation, and so, therefore, this is one of those moments when you realize the consistency lies within yourself, that you are indeed the one, royally fucked in the head, or something like that.

Maybe, I shouldn't have watched Trainspotting. Maybe, there are a lot of things that I shouldn't know. Damaging to young, impressionable, damn damn fragile minds.

What did he say? Something about happiness, oh yes, to live is to happy, and I'm sittin' there sippin' on my milk tea nodding and smiling at him wide-eyed and excited and knowing at the base of my heart that it's easier said than done. What did she say? Something about maturity, and the immaturity of her yesterdays, my todays, and how one day we'll all get over it and realize how stupid we all were, are.

The thing is. I don't think we got over it. I'm not sure we ever will.

I'll tell you what it is though. It is a bit cold, a bit late (early?), a bit disillusioned (very temporary), a bit reassuring (a sign of maturity?), a bit I look forward to tomorrow when I see my uncles and aunts. Because, even if you fall flat on your ass, even if you are aliens on all the planets that you reign, home is home is still home. I wish I could put it in my pocket.

KAO

in

All poetics have been stolen by the Chinese journal.- I have been eating out consecutively, my stomach.... um, protests. I think it's gotten used to daddy's monk diet. - Being around photographers, editors, journalists, filmmakers, people who can string peices of daily life to a DV documentary project, makes me cry. - Being around friends make me cry. - Being makes me cry. - CRY.

There's loads of homework to do. loads of research to do. loads of people need to talk to. loads of (two) resumes need updating fixing. loads of shit to write. loads of internships need to be found. loads of preparation to maybe move to beijing that need to be done. loads more restaurants to go to. loads of movies to watch. loads of books to read. loads of magazines to inhale.

Fucking hell. Busy is great. /jinx

Under the Sun

in

I have no strength left to write. It is simply very tired. Hence, the short static sentences. Life is very great. I love brilliant, ambitious, creative kids. What a world. Thank you. Good night. Elaborate... maybe sometime.

this is an entry (not) about love

in

The kids here break my heart--absolutely, wholly, empathetically. I am in love with them as I would be in love with myself--narcissism, idealism, dysfunctionality. I have a thing for three things in a roll, but I'm sick right now so I feel like having a fit instead. I hate the bars because of the smoke that make my eyes spin and my nose run, but I like the way she talks about the crazier things as the ordinary, and for the first time in my life, I felt ordinary in a cluster of the extraordinary. Hello, hello, love, where have you been all my life. Have you been here all this time, and it was just me who's left you? What if I were to say I'm back, would you take me piece by piece, would you excuse my lack of four-character idiomatic expressions, would you love me, could you please. It's been lonely, because it's been lonely.

I guess I've always been under the incorrect assumption that I am one of the few extraordinary weirdos out there, now I think my brand of eccentricity is... haha, get this, distinctively Chinese. I've no common ground with the American emo, indie, artsy, theatre, pothead, hippie kids. This is where I belong. No this is not in my head. Yes I'm racist. Yes when we throw around words like loneliness and jealousy and love and the lack thereof, I knew we were in the same realm of sensitivity. I just don't know why 10 years haven't changed who am I at the root.

I've always sort of assumed the last 10 years were pivotal to my life, but now I know, they're only... I don't know, what were they? A turn... let's get back on the highway now. It's funny that I'm writing in English though. I feel like such a bastard sometimes. I don't want that place. There's nothing wrong with that place. It's just me. We're different blood types, and so when we make babies, it'll get blood cancer. That's all, that's all, neither is at fault, neither here nor there. With that said, New York should be kept, for ROHANNNN ROHANNNN... miss that kid.

I have been reading the much recommended Annie Baby. Ah yes, the author I would have picked up a while ago if it weren't for the juvenile name. If you ever want to understand/be poisoned by the dark side of the Chinese psyche, she's it--all poetry, beauty, rawness, love, and scathing letters.

9

in

8:30 in the morning. 8:30 am, and I have been alive for more than an hour already, and I have eaten from the street (again), rode a bike with her in the backseat, said goodbye, listened to my stomach grumble with too much of the street food lately. Rotten tofu yesterday, the good type of rotten tofu very unlike his kiss in dreams. It's a strange type of warning, I say. It's a strange type of warning, you and I. Hooo... and I was going to write, but, Damien Rice's 《９》is absolutely stunning.

Leave me out with the waste This is not what I do It's the wrong kind of place To be thinking of you It's the wrong time For somebody new It's a small crime And I've got no excuse

Is that alright with you? Give my gun away when it's loaded that alright with you? If you don't shoot it how am I supposed to hold it Is that alright with you? Give my gun away when it's loaded Is that alright with you? with you.

Leave me out with the waste This is not what I do It's the wrong kind of place To be cheating on you It's the wrong time but she's pulling me through It's a small crime And I've got no excuse

Is that alright with you? Give my gun away when it's loaded Is that alright with you? If you don't shoot it how am I supposed to hold it Is that alright with you? Give my gun away when it's loaded Is that alright Is that alright with you?

Is that alright? Is that alright? Is that alright with you? Is that alright? Is that alright? Is that alright with you?

No...

capital of cool

in

Hey so, I give it 15 years, give or take, before China becomes the gorilla (panda?) sized nation of cool. There's a few reasons for this. 1. America will always be the harbinger, but it lacks an "indigenuous cool." America will never be cool. All the cool Americans are not Americans. Plus, O'Hara Intl airport sucks beer bellies. 2. Russia is so cool it's cold, plus there's not enough folks. 3. There's nobody else left in the world with 1.3 billion minds and way too much competition. Japan can blow up on coolness and it's still just an island. Hong Kong... well, Hong Kong's not a country, and they use traditional characters and have Fad for last names so... ^_~ Erm, sorry, that was slightly uncalled for mainland pride.

Media development in the mainland is staggering though. Even if the dramas suck more and more (I blame this on the art and makeup department, all right, and the script, but not Shu Qi, definitely not Shu Qi...) the documentaries, magazines, and other media outlets (that doesn't include  really annoying top models, top singers, top anchors contests shows, but those are annoying anywhere I suppose) with no more than two years on them, are just stunning in how they've grown in just a year. Now this doesn't mean they're brilliant, this doesn't mean there isn't a lot of imitation, but originality and creativity can and do blossom from imitation when appealing to a different market, different set of minds. So I've high hopes for the media here. As for censorship, hmm, that is a chapter of a problem, but in our present concern of arts, music, movies, basically, selective materialism, we should be okay.

Rice (www.riceage.com) magazine, among a couple pretty others caught my eye for two reasons. 1) For its discernible, impeccably East Asian art/design hipster feel. 2) For just how young it is. Working at Theme has taught me that starting a magazine in the States is a matter of stakes, is a huge investment, is something you don't really make money off of, is seeing a lot of money disappearing... and not coming back. So is the case for a lot of these new magazines in China. Rice is started by a couple recent college grads from the ever 前卫 Guangzhou. Now, I'm sure that individually they are all pretty well off, but it baffles me on how they could support the mag, but I suppose what is their weakness is also their greatest strength - youth, ideals, ain't nuttin' to be afraid of. Hee.

On the East Asian feel and sensibilities, I may be biased on this, but I honestly feel like Asians are the most vain folks on the planet, stuck in this mentality of superiority/inferiority complex. Asian fashion breathe both tradition and the loudly modern, and like the streets of Harajuku and Hong Kong, fashion, vanity, to be sure, is not a matter of have you got it, but whether you have it in yellow or red, better yet, the new color is coral, are you caught up. Asian fashion is louder, flashier, and more complicated than its American (simple, loose, comfy) and European (sophisticated, high fashion) counterparts, and I think, this aesthetic bleeds in its art world as well. The prevalence of Manhua/Manga/Japanese anime is existent (slightly annoyingly) in too many art forms. Cuteness is overrated, and dreamy is a mindset, all of this contribute to a certain tone of "naivete." I think that's what Rice reminds me of, an unabashed celebration of youth and "naivete." US magazines tend to have a tilt-your-head professional feel to them, but a lot of the mainland magazines literally scream "written and made by your peers." Who are talented, no doubt, there's never been a lack of talent in China for the last 5000 years (as always, who to follow and what ideal to follow is the problem).

Which was why... I had a semi-anxiety attack yesterday on "what the hell am I doing here?" Not because I don't love it, it is precisely because I love this place, and have consciously made a decision that, that's it, I'm staying here, did the problem arise. The competition here really is fierce. It's a type of fierce that I didn't feel in New York. It's a tangible fierce in which you're not only fighting talent, fighting to stand out, but you're fighting the logistics. You're fighting the fact for everything you can do, there's probably countless number of people who can do it as well, better even. The game here then, is not only do you have to be good, you've got to push, you've got to learn about how human relationships here work, because it's a beautiful and complicate mess, you've got to let yourself stand out. Same in New York, I just never actually worked up to the level of competition, to actually feel the competition, I think. But despite rumours, I do think New York is a benign place. I think China, well, China is colder.

Especially these past few days without heating. 冷的让人发抖, 冷的在家穿手套,冷的想死了算了。Got emails from Lacey and Haley: P.S. That free bread was the shit!!! and definitely one of the best-cant-remember-which-year-it-was summer!!! miss u lots over in ohio. It's really been years... and those are my favorite girls ever... and that really was the best cant-remember-which-year-it-was summer. It really really was. I really wish I've met more people like them. Maybe there's a volunteer homeless shelter in Tianjin... hmm. Actually... yeah. God, wonder how the Mormon boy is, wonder if he's still Mormon, what memories, what a summer. Okay, too much writing, got an article to finish, and an interview that I have no idea with what to expect.

expository writing

in

Dear Minako, Can I please drop out of school? I think we should do it. Today I saw a set of Chinese chess sitting on a table, lit by the orange street lamps. They glowed cinematically - the harsh strokes of SOLDIER, the curves of HORSE, reds and greens illuminated like some movie set in Shanghai a century ago. Then my iPod cues in 陈升's 鱼说,and I swear I almost broke down, tears and all, Minako! Tears and tears and memory and future and what's left what's left if not here, Minako?

But I don't know if I've earned it. Thing is, I don't think I've earned it. Thing is, I hate being the "return-from-abroad-spoiled-rich-girl." I hate it because I know that's what I am. I know I haven't clawed my way through elementary, middle school, high school exams. I know I haven't suffered from not being able to find a job that so many undergrads face. I know I wasn't born in the rural villages where that 680yuan I just spent on a gym/yoga/hip-hop class can buy so many meals and education for so many. Am I guilty? No, I just feel like I haven't earn it, that's all.

Because it's weird, to be on the lower middle class for ten straight years in America, to be on free lunch, no insurance, to roam one apartment after another, to earn your own scholarship and your own education, to suffer through it, and to earn it, it's dignifying. Then suddenly, you find yourself catapulted to the upper class here on your parents' money and legacy, and you think, what are you without them, what can you do, what are you worth?

Which is why, I need to find a job. Guiming asked me today, how much are you spending a month? And I pause, and I tell him honestly that I have no idea, but it's probably a scary number, especially because they all come from father. Now sure I have my reasons for lavishness. By being in China I'm saving a shitload of money I would otherwise spend on living on Granville, Ohio. My school is giving me money to be in China. But it's still... wrong, very very wrong somehow. Which is why, we're gonna find a job, between school, and the gym, and the writing, and the boy.

As for the jobs, there are many and very few options.

Option #1: Teach English Pros: Pays so very well Pros: Not tiring at all Cons: I don't want to speak English, at all Conclusion: Not gonna happen, unless it's to teach for friends.

Option #2: The dishes, waitress, store clerk, cafe type Pros: Dig dirty and deep to the "real" China? Cons: Tiring. Pay not well. Cons: I WILL SUCK AT IT. Conclusion: I actually really want to get a regular manual job, but I don't think I'm good enough... such a klutz, and these would want long hours... and Guiming actually scoffed and said, "you don't know how tiring those jobs are."

Option #3: Not gonna say... hahaha. I just got a number and called today and got an interview. No jinx! It may be that this wouldn't work out at all, but if it does... that would be nice.

BUT I FORGOT. I HAVE TO GO TO THAT INTERNSHIP.... SHITEEEE. Where be time. Where be time?

I asked Ayae the other day (she just got back from studying in the UK) whether she liked the USA or UK better, and she replied: Japan. Hahahaha... that's Asians for ya.

#3 Murakami Ryu’s Almost Transparent Blue

in ,

我拼命吸气,但只有一点空气吸进身体，那空气似乎并不是通过口腔和鼻孔,而是从胸前的一个小孔中流出来的。我的腰麻木得不能动弹，心脏一阵阵绞痛，太阳穴的血管膨胀着，无规则地怦怦乱跳。闭上眼睛，我觉得整个身体在被温存的爱抚，又像涂在汉堡包上的奶酪一样正在融化。我的体内分裂成级冷的部分和带有热量的部分， 它们回旋着，像试管中的水和油块。 村上龙《近似无限透明的蓝色》 Finished October 11-22

"摇滚、吸毒、群居、暴力、飞车、堕落的青春" (sex, drugs, violence, rock n' roll, misspent youth etc.) is somehow appropriate motifs for the moment. Don't ask and I won't tell, not that there is anything to tell, actually. It's a matter of state of mind, rather. Not that there is anything going on there, either. Sometimes I think I need to stop being infatuated/attracted to the shifty characters in life. I'm not sure they are actually more interesting. Living like this can be tiring though. Life becomes a collection of notes and notices. Lately, I feel like every conversation is a research point, like I wish people would just hand me the abridged version of their life and interests on a effing facebook profile or something. But I'm not actually whining... I'm actually, pretty productive, pretty happy, pretty in love, not really on the last bit, I don't think, but it's fun to say, not fun to regret, so let's cut that in half.

My hairdresser called this time instead of text msg to remind me to get my hair treated. Ring tone scared me nine in the morning cuz nobody calls cells in this country unless it's an emergency. "Qing Qing, why are you always forgetting? What are you doing today?" So far he's blown me off twice to sit down and chat because he's works thirteen hours a day and six days a week, either that or he actually doesn't love me, but I honestly think he is busy, and I honestly need his story, just because... I don't know, youth, hippies, skateboarders, hip-hop, lifestyle, art, hairdressers somehow go well together. He's great. I'll just make him write an autobio while "playing with my hair."

Hey... wasn't this a book review?

Oh, dear Minako, happy birthday, btw.

Reading Almost Transparent Blue is like driving with some reckless, miserable, drunken kid. Every other chapter you endure a 70 mph car crash, only to discover, miserably, that you are still alive, as alive as the fly on the pineapple in the sink. I didn't know half of the drug terms because they were in Chinese, but the early scene of heroine injection is about the closest acquaintance I will ever be with heavy drugs. It's a dirty dirty book. I'm not sure I liked it. I did like the shock factor, the type of visceral, caught off guard, he did fuckin' what, mouth hanging open shock values that have made me grown as a person, methinks. It's the type of experience that you wonder about, like yesterday when Wengang Ge cursed from the bottom of the floor to the top, throwing his coat with so much force and fury against the wall. When quiet people go berzerk, you wonder... you just wonder... Except it made me wonder what it must be like to live in an abusive home, how one must grow numb. Anyway, men are scary, can be, I wouldn't one screaming or hurting me ever, that is all.

Reading Almost Transparent Blue isn't always as raucous as rock music though. The book is interluded with mute, ambiguous scenes of the narrator with Lily. I once said books are driven by characters, this is true in most places, and it's true here. The problem with ATB is, I couldn't sympathize with any of the kids, however many there are. Six? Seven? But maybe Murakami was going for a blurred youth nameless faces type of effect, but I didn't like the narrator.

It's hard to write a narrator based on yourself, I suppose. No matter how hard one tries, the danger of narcissism always slips in. Murakami Ryu's Ryu is a cloudy narrator. He's more narrator than 1st person storyteller, and though that makes him more distant, less biased, somehow it makes it all the worse because it makes his persona seems cold, distant, lost. And we know coming of age (or never coming of age, for that matter), or lost is what he is, but it's frustrating because the other characters unwittingly surround him, reflects off of him, and the reader too, is dancing around him, wishing he would wake up, Ryu, wake up, do something, don't just stand there, do something, Ryu.

There was one scene that was classic Japanese manga/cinema. One of the kids, after beating up his girlfriend viciously, slits his wrist. "Now you know how I feel about you," he says to her. To which she replies, "Toshiyama, we're going out to eat. It's noon already and nobody's eaten yet. If you want to die, go die alone, go outside and go die alone, don't bring trouble for Ryu." Insert deadpan Japanese girl voice.

Hmmm... but I don't remember her name, don't care for her name, maybe that is okay.

Hmm... well, moral of the story, know your limits. ;)

beijing rocks

in

10.1 - 10.7 的狂 Life's so prettay i dun even miss anything.

a sea of red and army green

three greats: zhang chu, xie tian xiao's sudden appearance playing backup guitar (FAINT)... and zhang chu's hippie guitarist

old school

new school?

情侣

there it is!

well, it is the BEER and rock festival... early in the mornin'

caffeine

古琴大师

too hot

look, it's ge you with dreads....

i love these two. they are very benign looking...

look at that boy... just look at him. damn.

buyi~!

my autographed copy of XTX's I Don'T LOVE YOU rawwrrrr

by sasha

girl rocker...

...and funniest picture ever...

book review #1 《草样年华》

in ,

Okay, the upside, my Chinese is certainly getting better. The downside, my English is certainly getting worse. Like um, writing in English is actually hard now. This has to be the hardest entry I've ever written. Christ. Understandable. But. Too fast too fast. 草样年华II by 孙睿 Finished September 21-26

过去，我们大学生是大熊猫。 现在，成了被遗弃的接头野猫。

I gave myself a limit of two weeks a book, which means. After plucking a couple of never-heard-of bestsellers with nice covers and anecdotes at the local book store, I've arrived at the junction of being a book wiser, a few Chinese characters richer, and a stomach full of fury. It might seem like having finished a book a week and two days before the set two week limit is a testament to the quality of the book. It actually means having thoughts of "okay, that's it, I'm not reading this shit" after every chapter, but I've made some sort of a mental vow to finish every book I start here. But with all its bestselling and grabber - "a classic novel read by over 10,000,000 college students," 《草样年华 》falls not only short, but flat on its face, so flat if it ain't flat enough I want to punch the author's face flat myself for wasting trees, ink, and not to mention, my time. But it's not the time I'm worried about at this moment. Time I've got. It's the sheer amount of unhappiness and LACK of escapism this book provides.

Then again, contemporary Chinese lit, if nothing else, is always a slap in the face.

But this book lacks the spirit and soul of Lu Xun. It lacks the bones - a theme, a message, a point, and all that is fine, just fine, except satire only goes so far before wit become sour and then dour, and I swear I've never hated more a protagonist, a supporting cast, and the one with the guiding hand - the author.

Why the hate? Worse yet, why the apathy turned to hate because I'm so entirely apathetic toward the well-being of every individual in the book (and this, ladies and gents, is how you know a novel fails, complete and utter apathy). Well, the bits and the pieces of the book are all promising. It starts out sharp as we meet the narrator, or rather, the narrator's mind. It's a brilliant bird view introduction that glides through the social and economic changes of China from the observations of a recent college grad. He dips in the soulless, capitalist markets of new China, makes sarcastic comments, talks about the ills of getting into and going to grad school, makes scathing comments, reflects on his roommates in college, expatiates on his ex-girlfriend... makes more world weary remarks. The beginning was nothing if not sharp, and if it were reduced to an essay just then, all would have been okay, I would still have hope for twenty-somethings writing books in China. Unfortunately, the book ended when the expository is finished and the story began.

I think that's the main problem with this popular genre of fiction (愤世嫉俗？ A mix of world weary youth disillusion / black humor? A most unfortunate execution wrought from coming of age syndromes?) written by the doomed after-80ies generation. The book ends when the story begins. They should all just write articles with sharp commentary, instead of dragging it on and on for 250 pages and sagging the minds of their readers. Or maybe, twenty-something year olds just don't have enough stories.

What is the story? Well, there is no story, no good story, no salvageable story. If we try to pinpoint a linear story. It's a recent college grad from an mediocre university still very much in love with his ex-girlfriend who is in France got hit on by some random chick who knew him when he was in a band in college and they went out on the ground that if his ex-girlfriend in France came back he would be back with her and then goodie she did come back and he went back with her but the new girlfriend won't give him up and tries to break the old relationship, but that didn't work, but in the end the protagonist and his girlfriend broke up anyway for miscellaneous, stupid reasons.

The most memorable parts of the book are not any twists in the plot or ANY, and I repeat ANY OF THE CHARACTERS. In fact, all the characters are smart but trying, jaded and bloated, and very very annoying. The most memorable parts of the book are when the narrator reflects on a nut or a bolt of the college experience, but even those are overshadowed by the tinge of cynicism that drowns any credibility he has.

But honestly, even writing about this book makes me unhappy.

Next up, Murakami's After Dark is already translated into Chinese. It is considerably more difficult. Why do I feel like a 汉奸？

Readings

in

Last time saying this, but I would give anything for an imagination, anything to pick up an interesting news bit, a bizarre murder case, and be able to weave, elaborate, embellish it into a coherent story with characters and denouements. but I can't, and I envy those who can, as i try to make a story deadline (next Friday is it? bang bang). The tragedy of nonfiction is also that, due to my poor social skills to anything not handed to me, I am lacking in the department of human interaction. That is, i've had plenty of interaction with nurses and doctors in the last two weeks, but alas... other than maybe a paragraph on just how Chinese Chinese hospitals are, i can't see a redeeming point. Unless i do some social-critique type of essay... then I've plenty of material, but I'm afraid Gao Xingjian beat me to it. i must be too Westernized if I'm thinking like Gao too, all respect, but unfortunately no one respects him here, but then the fact that I don't like (but respect) Chinese literature in the past 100 years doesn't bode well for that. so instead, i bought Kafka on the Shore in Chinese instead, along with three other contemporary contemporary Chinese novels that looks of interest, and here is my philosophy, if you've no stories pelting in your direction, then enter the world of fiction. Diminutive homework from my classes help this, and so I'm setting myself with a rigorous self-study schedule that includes writing many characters and finishing novels in two weeks and churning out stories no many how painful it is. whether I succeed or not is a matter of perseverance, but by god, I'm a New Yorker, and that's the end of it.