Note 18
It is an axe in his pair of hands Yes, it’s an axe, something you can
rarely get hold of. He must have stolen it from the emergency window
case or something like that. What is he going to do with the axe he
doesn’t really know. But he just do it according to his dream. Or not
his dream but his pure imagination. He imagined he uses an axe to
strike something. What is the something is unimportant. What interests
him is to destroy. He dares not to chop up a human. He just want to
destroy things with a axe. He is angry. But nobody see it. Even he
himself is faked by the little elated lips on his face. He feels
bitter. He read a book some time ago which said bitterness is a
fossilized
anger. His anger is all the way repressed and become a chain of
bitterness. It’s the bitterness which makes him dream the dreams. The
dream of axe. He is ready to strike. And he has a whim that he
should fly to Paris tommorow. So
that he can destroy things on the street without being looked at. When
the young people are raging for a job, he is just asking for slice of
happiness. Sometimes his dream is so reactionary that he even afraid to
destroy everything he sees. He will only choose the less useful, less
utilized goods in life to damage. Even in the disposition of his
bitterness he has to be repressive. When he thinks of the inhibition,
his bitterness aggravates. How pathetic for a man has to be repressive
even
in his fantasy. He looks at the axe he is grabbing. The desire to
destroy
suddenly vent away to nowhere. He feels dreadfully depressed. Where is my
anger? Where is my extreme emotion? The axe has no more use when its
emotion loses. Things are always attached with an emotion. He throws
the axe feverishly. The
hit creates some sparkles, some short-lived sparkles. Walls surrounded,
he goes nowhere. But the anger has already left the axe and sneaked
through the bricks. Now only a man left, a sick man left.
‘Congratulations.’ For what? Doesn’t matter, as long as we are congratulated. Congratulation needs not an object. It’s more like a gesture to show your secerity and grace. The emotion of congratulation is weird. Neither selfish nor selfless. It is somewhere in between. Who say such a word to you? Do friends say this to each other? Is it a language of pretence? Can we say ‘congratulation’ without even a slice of anxiety? Can we not say ‘congratulation’ without a tiny bit of unease?
I better delete this acrid prose. Language is always a trap. What if lovers be together and speak silence to each other? Movie, gifts, festival, beaches, fashion, etc, they can take up the time spent together. They are more than enough.
One more month to go. I am in between N.America and Hong Kong. Want to slip away through a slit. Myself goes with the blood. Flush. Move outside the system. Escapism. Troubles never cease. We thought we can postpone a trouble but it will only accumulate as time goes by. Brings out your courage; fix the every here and now. Then you enjoy the there and future. O no, not necessary an enjoyable future. But only less troublesome. So life is about picking out troubles. Yea, we make them up. We are rubbish-maker. Be careful. Here comes the cliche. Stay off. Don’t interpret. Go and just read. Read your life, dun interpret your life. Keep occupied, be just a passer-by.
After all, what is important is not the content but the form. What we
excrete is not important, but how we excrete is. It appears that we
have somehow an affinity to shit. Shit here needs to contextualize a
bit. Shit is the metaphor of trashy writing. It refers to words that
are of no USE to the readers. Shit has no literal meaning on our
everyday communication. If writing shit, or bullshit, or trash
gives no ‘meaning’ at all, then why users are kept obsessed with this
trash-disposing medium? If we do not have an affinity to trash, then
what motivates us to this compulsive excretion? To answer this
question, we have to understand the implication of shit. Shit,
literally refers to something unwanted, abandoned, rejected. It is
rubbish that is not useful to the operating system. It blocks the
normal operation of our everyday lives. But the existence of shit is
undeniable. Though they are outside the system, they are within the
larger sytem. So the system is never clean system. There’s excretion
everyday, every moment, every time when we log-in. However trashy are
they, these writing has to be disposed anyhow. Only through the
excretion can the larger system be complete and balanced.
Of course we might argue that some of us are not writing shit here.
Sure, not here, but somewhere else. If we store our shit but don’t get
it disposed, you get constipated. Well, fibre doesn’t help here. What
you need is a flexibility to dispose your trash, an open-mind to read
trash, write trash, comment on trash. Again, doctor can’t help. Consult
trashy-writers if you need. They are everywhere.
O then is excretion a kind of performance? If someone dumps on the
stage, his trash is not his ‘real’ trash. His shit is a pretentious
shit. As you said, no matter who wholeheartely you shit, it’s still a
piece of shit. Then where is his original trash? Disposition supposes
to be the
most natural gesture in human. If users don’t get their real trash
disposed on the stage, then where is their ultimate washroom? Perhaps
their most personal stage is the stage with few audience. Perhaps the
audience is not the audience; they are the intimates of the actor on
stage. The actor do not perform to his intimates, he does the truest
excretion in front of them.
Our need to dispose our stuff increases. What we dispose is not
important. In fact the increasing need to perform excretion is the area
long been understudied. Will one day the system of
trash outcast the system of the appropriate? When more and more users
are obsessed with this washroom, will the space get exploded someday?
Hope it won’t be too smelly. The washroom probably will not dominate.
If so it won’t be called washroom anymore.
I regret to have drown myself into such a tedious question. To be more specific, I shall reform my questions again: Why do people start the habit of xanga? And what causes them to abandon this habit?
I am more interested in the latter question. To be able to totally abandon the habit of public diary, the user should have undergone a psychical transformation. To indulge in writing in xanga, he adopts a habit of disposing his emotios and feelings in a public and virtual space. When he manages to abandon this habit, his emotions and feelings have to vent in somewhere else. It is like the conservation of energy in science, that our affects can never be destroyed. They move among individuals and are stored in different forms. They also inhabit in the virtual space. Xanga is originally a container of human emotions and feelings. Abandoners pull off his affects and dispose into another container. It can be a person, a machine, a book, a kitch or a divine figure. Besides, people who owns their specialty do not hang out with xanga. Because through their expertises they can gain their subjectivity, they own mastery of a situation. Xanga is a place for mastery, for the retrieval of a self. Whenever you start typing the first letter on a new entry, you are building up your self. For those who have lose their ‘self’, or their ‘self’ is basically fragile, they obsessed in writing in this public space. It doesn’t mean that we are pathetic or weak. In fact, everyone has been finding their niche, their space to confirm themselves. Seems that people do so by virtuality is ‘unhealthy’, but people who find ‘self’ in reality is any healthier.
Back to the affects disposition. To succeed to dispose our emotions and feelings is a completion of identification. We are finding someone/thing (a container) to identify with. Xanga is a effective medium. Those who abandon xanga is because they have found another container of their affects, for instance, Love. I mean real love. But this leads to another branch of questions: The will to abandon can be either passive or active. The effect of Love that help recieve our affects is a passive case. There are people who actively abandon xanga. This kind of abandors usually find more difficult to completely cut off from xanga. They have a compulsion to write publicly. They are the people who try to leave the space but re-enter it again. It’s a masturbation.
To be more complicated and unorganized, the return from abandoning xanga to re-obsession of it is problemtic. If they can find their subjectivity in xanga, why bother to abandon this habit? Perhaps they think that the reality is more real and concrete. And they can feel ‘healthier’, closer to humans, having more meaning in live, etc. But if in reality users are also to find their subjectivity, why is the reality necessarily a better medium to grant you the ‘self’ than is the virtual space? Are the ways to find our ‘self’ in virtuality different from the reality? How are they different? Is there a ‘better’ way?
Obsession and abandon happen also in the reality. Our obssession time is somwhow shortening. People keep abandoning things without even the slightest obsession. It’s an ‘uninterrupted disturbance’. We lost our faith. Our faith in ourselves, others, government, systems, country and Love. Faith shatters, what is left is an empty shell. We need someone to fill in; we need something stuffing. However, they never last long.
My regret is justified.
Why do they close the hub here, but then open another one in
somewhere else? The pyschosis of obssesion and abandon. Question: What makes you
starting writing here and what causes you to leave? Is it necessary
that an obssession is followed by an abandon? Does it work in reversed?
If one leaves here, is it beacuse s/he finds a substitute? Or is that
s/he has inhibit the will to dispose the self? Can an abandon be
eternal? Can we cut the cycle? Later.
On air, me and you concluded:
1. Extraordinary person needs the silent support of the ordinary masses. Not because the ordinary cannot be extraordinary, but they are just perfectly fine with their condition. At the same time, the perosn keeps exhausting himself until the end of the game.
2. Mapping out love is the most tedious work ever. Yet it’s the most interesting job so far.
3. Artist who hates art is artistic. Philosopher who hates philosphy is philosophical. Student who hates study is studious.
4. Travelling is always nice. But it is still gendered.
5. To literary people, pleasure is fleeting and momentary. There’s not the most pleasurable moment. Pleasure is luxirious.
6. Academic fame is built upon quotations but not wisdom. Two scholars can popularize each other by keep quoting each other’s crap.
7. A song never suits you. It’s you who suits the song, especially for pops.
8. To fall in love is to forget to have fallen in love. To work hard to to forget to have worked damn hard.
Note 17
……The man steals a glance to the wrapped book. He cannot help to
switch the glance into a gaze. For no ideas his heart throbs
crazily. At the same time, the woman finds her cell and begins to
converse.
The man understands very well his gaze is unjustified. He should not
feel envious of his lover. She has achieved the thing he has been
hunting for a life time. She ripes away his
goal; she is way ahead. His imagined possession of a published book
went bankrupt. To him it’s like someone has just stolen his precious
property though we all know that the possession is never his real
possession. It’s only his sheer fantasy. He begins to realize the
confusing blend of fantasy and reality. That makes him even more
anxious. He hates himself being envious. More, the anxiety in his
envy reinforces his hatred of envy itself. How schimatic he feels
inside; how rotten is his consciousness.
He can’t bear even a glance of the book anymore. Off he leaves the
coffee house. It’s the first time we see his physique. He is very weak.
His overcoat fails to disguise his skinny shape. He don’t know where to
go; he just wants to leave at once. He strolls in the crowd. Everyone
walks a little bit faster than him. Conscious or not he has no idea.
His foot lead his body towards the washroom. Everytime there’s a space
separating the outside and the room. That is the space mediating the
publis space and the private. He always enjoys the few seconds spent in
that space. His heart sinks in the space; he then enter the washroom.
Nothing fancy, but washroom is always filled with a sense of pretence.
It has to be decorated to an extent that it seems to be clean but not
too exaggerated. Using white tile satisfies the both. Washroom is the
filthy, unhygienic place. We cannot bear the filthiness of shit
therefore those white tiles, aroma, artifices, music are used for
disguise. When he comes to this point in his mind, he has
finished all his errand and stands in front of the wall of mirror. ‘Why
is there always a mirror in this filthy place?’ He ponders. The answer
is obvious in a social sense. But he is not satisfied. ‘How many people
like looking himself in a mirror everyday? Are those people more than
people who dislike doing so? Which group is bigger?’ At least, he is
the latter category. He hates seeing himself in the mirror. Every time
he sees himself, he can’t help to judge Him in the cruelest way he ever
cast on any objects. His weaknesses cannot be listed. Unlike others, he
always walks out from the washroom with a gloomy face. The others find
their Selves in the mirror but he cannot. He looks at the guy who is
checking his wrinkled face carefully. He re-shapes his hair with his
pair of moisten hands. His deliberate fingers surprise Him. He imagines
how much time we can save if there is no hair style in the world.
Standing still in front of the mirror, reflecting these crazy matters,
he giggles in a sudden. Probably the combing man thinks he is insane.
His previous anxiety of the book is brushed away by a satirical laugh.
Without a glance of the mirror, the man turns around and ready to return to the coffe house……
Note 16
See, we are under the
same sky. See, stars shimmering out the blind. Do you see them? Do you
feel them? Out of darkness, I am warmed by those scattered emblems. It
is chilling on my face, their radiance heats up my heart. Though we are
standing not by each other, I can clearly make out your face in the
mirror image of the stars. Your cheek, you lips, you eyes, they are all
vivid in my faculty. Perhaps our reunion is only restricted under
darkness. More! The stars do not frequent in every three hundred and
sixty-five days. Perhaps the rarity will let us value more. My heart,
however, is so passionate that rarity is nothing but cold torture to
me. I alleviate my pain by begging for art. Some of them just perfectly
match you. O I am so glad that there is art. Those unexpected melodies
are like inflammables keep sustaining my futile fire. Love is too long,
the night is too short. I hope, I hope the Sun will listen to me, spare
a longer night to us. Night sinking, the Sun rises soon. I
guarantee not my love will sustain to eternity though, my conscious is
no less sober to philosophy at this very instant. Transient is the
adjective for love. To be crude in the first place is always better
than be merciful all the time. True, I can give no eternity. What I
have inside is a contingent, yet flaming soul. The night is fleeting.
My mind has to live blank again for the daylight. How much I wish an
unbreakable string could connect us so we never lose directions. Losing
you is nothing but an agony; the dark is confusing my right way…Under
the sky, stars shimmering out the blind. Do you see them? Tell me, tell
me…I wish their lights can reach your windows, my words touch your
soul, my passion warm your coldness…farewell……
講分開 可否不再 用憾事的口吻 習慣無常 才會慶幸
Why, why we need excuses for a split, why we keep reasoning when we depart? We are pathetically bounded by morals and the past. To find an excuse is to to be virtuous wickedly. We are just too fragile; we are too intimidate to bear the evil of every smash of relationships. Only excuse, only excuse can help soothe the wound, the potential wound sprout in the souls. But no excuse anymore. The same excuse repeats itself in every parting. Enough with repeated bluffed words.
Another way to handle life it said, is to get along with variability of life. Split and departure are countless thus we should face them flexibly. The material world rolls so fast that we never spot the cycle. How hard on Earth can one be flexible. How rigid is those people who say themselves are incredibly flexibly. How to be flexible to life? Is that once we accept the variability of life then we become flexible? Or flexible is merely an attitude that doesn’t fully engage in any emotions in life? The visible world is changing yet our soul become stagnant. To feel glad with our flexibility? Shall we? Or is it a life even more pathetic?
So it said, 講真 天涯途上 誰是客 散席時 怎麼分
這趟旅行若算開心 亦是無負這一生
……Journey, happy, responsibility…why…why life is a journey? What defines a journey? What means by happy? How happy can a journey be? What responsibilty do we bear in life? Why are we responsible to all these, and to life? How misleading can this line be? And how…how can we learn to ‘let go’? Thank you very much memory. I love you and hate you so much. Why can’t we manage our memory just like our email inbox? Why some memories are just undeletable? Until it comes to what extent will we realize our crazy artificiality? Can we still express our love when our tongues numb and every solid melts into air? How can a person be touched? Why we need surprise? Why we need to hide? Why? Journey, happy, responsibility…
So it said, 流水很清楚 惜花這個責任 真的身份不過送運.
Obshchechelovek 
