All I Can Remember Now

All I can remember now, is the small wooden table in the living room, which was always covered with dishes. You could hardly tell the contents or their colours. And grandma would be sitting by the door in that beaten up armchair, granddad on the other one right next to it; another small table was set in between those two chairs forming an awkward angle and was, similarly, covered with old magazines, in many of which my articles were published. My old bed from my childhood home was in their living room; it’s there just because. They were never good at saying goodbye to things, and had lost the desire for changes. Ever since the Cultural Revolution, mom said. Grandma was a beauty, mom said; she was fair, and elegant and all that. Granddad wooed her for a long time, mom said. She was supposed to be a mistress of a large family, one of those old names in Shanghai, mom said. But you gotta forget about those things, you see, mom said. And the kitchen, where I haven’t spent much time in, was never filled with the scent of delicious food, but rather, a blurry memory of cold afternoon sunlight and empty space, yet cluttered, you can hardly turn your head in it.

The last time I saw her, she barely remembered my face. I was feeding her lunch: a medium sized bowl of rice, vegetable and meet. She swallowed in silence like a child. A spoonful of clear broth, and then another, good job, that’s very good Ah Niang. Now, just eat a little more, you need this Ah Niang. There was never enough time. I left my city at the age of 18, but I had been far from them since high school. There are always so much of the worthless nothings and ridiculous chores that I don’t ever remember the purpose of. I was playing the piano; it always put a smile on her face. But the piano had been silent all those years. I had been away.

All I can remember, is that one time I decided pull the ultimate prank, to leave kindergarten and go home all by myself, crossing one of the busiest street in Shanghai, and go home. At that age, I never seemed to understand what it meant to be afraid. Alleyways, streets with cars and bicycles, all buzzing and honking and tires squeaking and my voice calling out to her when I saw her across the street drowned in the sounds of the city.
Every time I saw her she looked smaller, almost fading into the background. She’s slower, and weaker, and greyer, and all she does is smiling now.

10:12pm, May 15. Ah Niang’s gone to heaven, Mom said. Call and comfort your dad, mom said. Don’t call, we’ll talk when you get back, do your work now, dad said. The stupid Internet phone wouldn’t connect. I keep dialing, nothing, still nothing.
I don’t believe in heaven, or afterlife. When someone’s gone, they’re just gone. There isn’t a consolation price, and the regrets are forever.

I felt sick in my stomach when I realize how little time there had been, and how much I was in denial to even think about the possibility that one day, one day very soon, those who care about me, those I care about, are going to be gone forever.
All I can remember now, is that one lonely night when I was 9 or 10, awaken by my parents in the middle of the night. Wai Gong (my grandpa on my mother’s side), he is gone, mom said.

There had been more funerals than wedding I’ve been to. People cry, people tell the dead of their love. But the dead wouldn’t hear it. And we avoid, we take for granted, we even say hurtful things to those who love us and are living.

The Top-Down and the Bottom-Up

Venturing off to talk about a topic that concerns us all. I'll be getting back to posting regularly and updating new annotations from Childe Harold but let's take a break from that and entertain ourselves with some male/female angles...

It's animal instinct. We are human beings, which means: we are designed to prepare ourself for mating. Especially in sophisticated societies, people are spending a ridiculous amount of money on grooming and packaging (themselves) so we can be individually presented in the most polished way possible. And, we are always thriving to look the way that attract the opposite sex (or the same sex, whatever you prefer). You cant deny it, it's bound to happen, no matter how much psychology you've read or how deeply cynical you've become after having spend too much time in a game called life.

credit: Ran Xia (rhinoriddler-art.tumblr.com)

Of course, there are differences between male and female: the difference beween top-down and bottom-up. You don't have to agree with this although I'm telling you it's generally true: women pay attention to whatever is above a man's shoulders and observe downwards. They would, of course, be impressed by someone with great hair, or an idiosyncratic mustache, bright smile, or, you know, the classics: beautiful eyes, straight nose like the one on a Greek sculpture, and then a strong jaw, exemplified by Cary Grant, most of the people who played Mr. Bond, etc. Height is important, and the general physical fitness, but for a large proportion of woman, the face value account for the most. So, in order to stand out in the crowd, a man's facial hair is, like a peacock's plume, to be put on parade with an aim to impress, and to set the tune for his self identity.

For centuries, men do the strangest things with their facial hair. I wasn't the least surprised when I discovered there's competitive beard sculpting. Personally, I think this is not just another weird sport like the hot dog eating contest, but has some value in regard to anthropology. It's part of our culture to decorate ourselves. In the animal kingdom, the males are always more extravagant with their looks, a phenomena that has been kept consistent in humanity until recent history, when the grooming standards for men becomes sort of boring and uniformed. We put attires and styles into categories and try to pick the socially acceptable ones; we check and double check in front of a mirror so that we don't get cornered on the street for being one of a kind. People who work in the field of arts and culture generally have more liberty when it comes to styles, yet the never-ending struggle of self-consciousness sometimes drive the entire society mental with frivolous dos and dons.

Me? I'm tragically stereotypical when it comes to making first impressions. A good laugh always adds points; and the sincerity in the eyes makes everything else melt away.

For men it's bottom up: I don't quite understand why but we are mostly in consent that when a man look at woman, it's likely that he would start from her feet and move up from there. The figure as a whole matters more than the face, or any other details for that matter. I'm not saying faces are not important, otherwise the cosmetic industry wouldn't be booming all these years, and people would never have to save up their entire life for some expensive plastic surgeries. But the botom-up model, can probably explain women's obsession of shoes.

This is definitely something I need to work on. Having always been inclined to hats rather than heels, I could never understand most of my cohorts' passion with those super uncomfortable, unpractical footwear. Indubitably this is one of the reasons why I'm still single. People say high heels give a woman confidence, not comfort. Shoes, expensive shoes, luxuriously looking, fabled in Cinderella's story, designed by high-end fashion masters, shoes, provide women with vanity, a sense of self recognition. I forgot the source, but the the quote goes like this: "fashion is what you want, not what you need." It's a kind of art form that has accompanied humanity since the beginning of time when the first ape decided to wear a string of bones around its neck.

Getting back to the topic of shoes, we can't forget the its not so subtle and altogether highly symbolic sexual indication. In real world its almost impossible to find a shoe that is perfectly fit; there's never "the one" like Cinderella was for her prince. We compromise and add inserts, or band-aid strips, to adapt our feet into those fancy containers. Most of us are the wicked stepsisters, jealous of the "idea" of a perfect girl, beautiful and virtuous, an abstract concept that can tip-toe inside of those glass slippers, yet vanishes when the clock of reality rings.

Of course, it's always a pursuit of perfection for either men or women. Those who claim they care nothing about looks are either lying, or they're gods on earth. Psychology tells us that people mostly follow trends, and we try our best to fit in, sometimes by standing out, and that there's no way to please everyone.

Ranting inspired by documentaries:

Mansome (2012)

God Save My Shoes (2011)

The Tents (2012)

II : LXXVII - LXXXIII Bullies (Or...In Constant Supression)

There's always "the girl who gets picked on all the time", and "the boy who everybody makes fun of" in every single classroom. Growing up, well, I was never the one who get bullied, but I've often felt sympathetic towards them, and eventually became one of the only people who befriends them. I would get assigned by teachers to sit with them, to be in the same activity groups, or partner up with them for gym classes. Now, something I need to make clear is that, I got into that position only because I didn't think there's any other way, plus, what would it hurt in the long run if you can spare someone the embarrassment of being the one left alone?

 

Of course, the situation Greece had been in for centuries, is much graver than some school children's taking sides and gamesome prejudice. The Muslims, the Catholics, the Christians, The French... soldiers carrying different colours smashed the city gates and brought down everything beautiful to ruins. Indeed the Greek had an amazing past of glory, you know when they where once so powerful and mastered the art of war, following Achilles' league and with Gods' support, amazing stuff. Those all passed like a whiff of smoke. I wonder who, or what can explain what happened that started the never-ending shame Greece were to be in. After the gruesome Trojan horse? It must have been. An act that would anger the gods and humans alike. 

It's an intricate situation when someone's under constant suppression, for it usually leads to two results: to explode or to perish. In the case of an individual, there's a third option of channeling the energy into something else, for example, artistic expression or sports, but in the case of a nation, it's a far more shameful circumstance. Leagues after leagues of people took siege of the state for their different perspectives on how the world should be and the names and shapes of their gods, yet destroyed something their common ancestors built in the process. The locals? Like a log on the water, isn't doing much to change its fate. Greece, she's in a passive aggressive state, a melancholic mood because she has been beaten down too many time to keep the optimism.

Most of the times I feel an overwhelming sympathy towards the suppressed ones. Although never the most popular kid in the block, I was fortunately never bullied at school. I consider myself even more fortunate to have never been the bully, for that's something people usually regret when they eventually understand the gravity of things you might have done as a child.

 

Oft I contemplate what would the constantly oppressed mind would be like. What would it be like to give up your own strength and dignity, and take whatever may come? Some of the greatest philosophers faced with unimaginable obstacles and ridicules from the oppressors, yet held on to a thread of their beliefs. It helps when you have a faith in something other than the physical world you suffer in. But Greece had none of that as she stumbles through the lineage in history, turning and flipping in the turbulence of different oppressors coming from all directions, knocking down her walls and pounding on her gate.

There are many a merry songs about love from that sweet land of honey and wine. Olive tree grows in Athena's favourite city, its branches symbolize peace and wisdom, not war and sorrow. The poet and the traveller still sings about love. It always comes back to love, doesn't it? Love seems to be the last thing to gravitate the constantly oppressed, the last element of hope, like the green light that turns James Gatz to Jay Gatzby. There's another constantly suppressed soul! Sometimes you couldn't see it underneath the glamorous armors they put on. 

Here's the thing about people who put on a grandiose mask and pretend to have an enlarged sense of self worth. This might sound ultimately cynical, but I meant it with all admiration, that, they are usually motivated by the constant suppression they've experienced in the past. Take Gatsby: the boy who grew up dirt poor with no means of getting out of his situation,  eventually built an empire out of his pursuit of love and social status. His everlasting shame of his upbringing and lack of root in the high society had been his downfall, but also what made him an admirable and respected character in the literary sense as well as, if you have someone like that in the real world, they are bound to succeed. (Just to digress a little, people in real life care less about "the one" woman they loved 5 years ago, and will probably put more effort in their career.)

So what if you don't do anything? What if there's someone, all beaten up, muddied and blood stained, yet they simply stand up, being so accustomed to receiving treatments, not surprised nor angry, simply get on with their lives and quietly wait for the next blow to pass? Do you still feel sympathetic towards them, or does that seem, well, infuriating? Do you feel obligated to be the helper, the guardian angel, or would you want to shake them awake and yell at them: "FIGHT BACK!" Wouldn't you want to tell them to pick up their own bat and make a stand? The childe must had tears in his eyes when he see the ruins in his beloved country, a place the ancient muses once hanged out, a place that bred generations after generations of great thinkers and artists, yet limping, not being able to protect herself, taking all the shots and not even making an effort to resist.

 

It's not a tragedy getting hurt, being bullied, or becoming suppressed from all sides. It's not that much of a tragedy either to die in combat, protecting one's own dignity. It becomes a real tragedy when one becomes, not the constantly suppressed, but the pitied one, dejected and spineless. You're truly helpless when you stop helping yourself. You lose all allies when you stop even trying to get up on your own.

Burger Babbling and Metaphysical Journey

The Burger Babbling

“Life is a box of chocolate” says Forrest Gump’s mum after we’ve all spent the entire first half of the film contemplating that the metaphor was gonna be “life is like a feather in the wind”. Bullocks, I thought, blurry-eyed after being drawn into this iconoclastic story yet once again, if life had been a box of chocolate, then at least you can read the ingredient list printed on the back. Nowadays they even give you visual guidance to let you pick your favourite flavors: the cone shaped one is milk chocolate with caramel fillings; or, the dark chocolate cube with pink stripes is raspberry flavored. Wanna change the order of consumption? Easy Peezy. Wanna skip an entire roll? Go for it. Unless you’re one of those people who choose to ignore all the clues and start at random, like going on blind dates and end up in exhaustion from meeting people from complete different worlds.

No, life is certainly not a box of chocolate, for unlike an honest, humble ingredient list, life only PRETENDS to give you choices, or let me rephrase, abstract ideas of choices. You’ll have visions of the outcome you were trying to get, which might turn out to be entirely different. It can certainly give you pleasant surprises, yet also disappointments. It’s a lot like when you order a burger at one of those places where you can decide what you want for each of the elements – what looks like a simple menu offers you a kaleidoscope of options beyond your imagination. And if you’re like me who’s just stepped in one of those joints for the very first time, it could become an overwhelming experience. You’re gonna need mentors and ask for perspectives, and of course, take risks and eventually hammer down your decision.

There are shortcuts of course. For example, you can try the recommended combination designed after generations of burger eaters’ experiences: the classics, the California style, the Mexican style, the vegetarian’s choice, etc., etc. You are allowed to tweak it a little bit depending on your slightly sticking out personalities, but those are certainly safe choices that couldn’t hurt your feelings, like a secure and safe life. You might not like it, you might even hate it upon first bite, but just like most people you’d probably end up sticking to it because, hey, you’re getting the protein and carbs you need, the taste might be mundane or boring, but what isn’t once you’ve gotten used to it?

Or, you can be a defiant and build your own burger. First you gotta choose your protein. Meat, it’s all about meat. After centuries and centuries of dietary evolutions it’s still meat we put on most of people’s plates. There’s nothing wrong with vegetarianism, but that’s a lifestyle that requires an entirely different kind of conviction and, well, financial support you can find those more expensive alternatives for your protein and fat.

And then you choose your vegetable; and then sauce, finally the buns; if you’re really, really hungry you can also get sides, beverages and desserts; I’m holding some prejudice against sliders: they sound like a choice made by people without persistence.

The waiter meticulously notes down your choices and finally with a smile and a nod, sends the order to the kitchen. In a few minutes, viola, you’re presented with your meal on a plain, undecorated tin platter, a sheet of wax paper separating the surface of the platter from the bottom later of your burger. You can see the sauce dripping from the edge and your bread, baked to shimmering shade of golden, releasing an indescribably energy: an amiable sense of familiarity, inviting, yet also like a stranger you just met but you had a déjà vu moment as if you’ve crossed paths in a different lifetime.

The next step determines weather the choices you just made for yourself is a success or a failure, or, well, a “tolerable”. The perfect scenario would be your meat, your veggie, your sauce and bread altogether create for you and explosion of amazing flavor that is ultimately both foreign and as if from a memory you’re born with, and it is a combination of tender, crunchy, greasy, refreshing, sweet, savory… it’d be a touching experience if you get very lucky, like a eureka moment for a chemist when they discovered a new kind of reaction.

You meat is like your occupation. Your life depends on it, so you better love it, otherwise even if you were getting your nutrient, it wouldn’t be an enjoyable process eating it. Sometimes your meat comes with bacon as an extra touch, like a part time job. For some people it brings infinite joy and makes their eyes sparkle; for some it’s just too much. Your vegetables are like your colleagues and friends, essentially who you choose to surround yourself with. They add varieties and distractions to your life and can change your attitude towards your career. Your sauce is your hobbies, adventures you take when you’re not working, dreams you pursue, or maybe just a Sunday morning in the park. Sauce can make all the difference. It’s actually THE element that does the trick: a really good sauce makes a good burger heavenly, and a terrible one tolerable. Of course, a bad cause ruins everything even all of your ingredients are of top-notch qualities. Your bun is the environment you’re in. No I’m not talking about the melting icecaps or the ozone hole, but the city you live in, the grocery store you shop at, the café where you get your morning Joe and greet the baristas who offers you a 10% discount because you accidentally revealed your student ID; your bun is the part that makes everything in tune; it soaks up the sauce and all the best flavors from your meat and veggies; it’s what contains you can pin you down and gives you a chance to readjust yourself from time to time even when all the other aspects of life keeps you spinning.

I can probably talk about all that with the ingredients that make up a salad, but a salad lacks the sense of mysteriousness a burger processes, especially from a spectator’s point of view. There are layers within layers about someone you’re staring right at yet couldn’t make out what’s truly inside of them. The beauty of the unknown, indubitably, extremely dangerous, likes a rose with invisible thorns.

Metaphysical Journey 

 

The burger experience is sort of like the Eat Me cake experience Alice had. It makes you grow bigger and bigger until you’re able to reach the key to the secret of what your life means. Of course in reality it wouldn’t be as fast as in a metaphorical story, but you get the point. The beer that usually accompanies the burger, on the other hand, becomes the Drink Me potion that returns you the sense of vastness of the universe and the insignificance of your whole being. There’s a similar comparison with Dorito chips and Budweiser in Hamish Linklater’s the Vandal, absolutely mind-blowing. The moments between munching and burping with your friends sitting around a table are potentially when all the greatest ideas morph into shapes. Especially on a hot summer’s day, you mind would start to float as the humming sound of a ceiling fan becomes soporific and the lighting in the room seems to dim as time goes by; you feel like time becomes a tangible material instead of being a linear, abstract concept. Everything else is suspended and you start to think too much.

Alice’s journey down the rabbit hole, or if you prefer the looking glass version, is more than just a schoolgirl’s fantastical dream in defiant of the colourless adult’s world of words and figures without pictures between the pages. She’s on the threshold of discovering what’s the meaning of all the strange things she sees, a world offering no explanations but forces that thrush you upon an unfamiliar shore where you have chunks of solitude, a luxury of contemplation and reflection about all the nuances between the colours of leaves of grasses and, what the morning dew tastes like, or, how long can you keep your balance standing on one foot.

Let’s take a moment and go back to the burger joint. The journey – there’s no escape to it because it just comes to you as a part of your personal growth ­– it comes to you after you open the menu, and continues on until you’ve made your final choice and have eventually taken a first bite. There’s no coming back after that, but during your metaphysical journey of self-discovery and self-formation, you get to make choices and pick your paths like when Hercules had to decide whether glory with hardship or pleasure in a life at ease is more appealing.

Of course, there’s the other kind of journey where you basically browse through all the choices and make your pick in the very end. Your experience along the way is what matters and what makes you stronger. And again, that journey also comes to you like the wind sweep through Kansas City and lift Dorothy’s cottage all the way to Oz. When you’re least expecting it. There will be strangers who are simultaneously intrigued and terrified by you. And the feeling would be mutual I assure you. Karuki Murakami’s main characters usually have that kind of fate. They get thrown into “hard-boiled wonderlands” or post modernist realism where the environment is no more than a loosely formed concept. Beasts with strange coloured furs and primitive memories feeds into the collective unconscious of fictional characters and readers who also submerged themselves into world of imagination.

It’s in our human nature to go on the road. And this is where eastern and western philosophies converge. You never grow until you’ve walk the walk, says the elder and the wiser. Some of the more epic journeys had been inevitably dangerous and violent. For example the one Bilbo Baggins never intended, or the one Monkey King dreaded for a long time. Odysseus’ journey was to go home, but home is such a broad idea sometimes that it can mean everything that is whole and comforting: it’s a final destination of clarity, fulfillment and infinite joy, a final accomplishment of being content of who you are after you have discovered your worth and role in life, and are content about it.

You’re gonna need a vehicle before setting off. You can be on foot, or get a car, a motorcycle, a boat, or in some cases a pen, a computer; you can complete a journey within a room, at a museum, as long as by the end of the journey you’ve reached somewhere that makes you feel enlightened as if never before. The procession would be full of unknown factors. The sirens: the temptations; the current: the obstacles; the pirates: the enemies, or in a commoner sense, your haters. If the journey is a physical one, it’s advisable to go on the road, or set off sailing with at least one friend, unless you have boundless imagination and can endure solitude, or only hang out with the imaginary ones. Even the great time lord needs a companion to keep him sane and make sensible decisions. Keep yourself occupied and take notes of your thoughts. A journey without some mental distilment is like watching a movie but falling asleep in the middle of it. You’d end up with a title and an idea of what you’ve just experience, but no actual substances; or let’s still use the burger as an example: you can create a seemingly wonderful order, condiments and special sauces and all, but when you were presented with the final product, you accidentally knock down the platter. The purpose of your journey is very important; even if you don’t know exactly what it is when you first started. The process takes you to the destination, but it’s also a process of discovering where that destination is.

II : LXXIII - LXXVI The Image of Shame

What is more pathetic than the once upon a time glory? What use there is to talk about past achievements or a history of bounty when the present is pitiful? 19th Century Greece wasn't in her prettiest condition, and from Byron's point of view, it's saddening because here it is, the country whose luxury of culture and art made him worship her. He's been longing for this land since he was a boy. And now, upon a first step onto Grecian shore, he's disappointed, devastated, enraged, yet still hopeful. He sees himself in the image of shame Greece holds: memories of glory days, a presence of confusion and a prospect with no clarity. And as for me? I see China, with 5000 years of stories and a brilliant tapestry of ancient civilization, beautiful but just like any antique, molding. And many of us are still indulging ourselves with the incomparable accomplishments our ancestors made some thousands of years ago: the compass, the gun powder, printing techniques (debatable, I know, debatable), and indeed, paper. In an era when the younger generations are all going paperless, we truly need to reconsider our situation here.

Over the past few centuries, nothing significant has come out of China in a groundbreaking, innovative way. Indubitably there have been brilliant theorists and people with amazing skills, decoding works of others, creating different versions of what already exists, finding shortcuts, and some of the more developed cities, have been indulging themselves with luxurious goods and a materialistic lifestyle. Granted that it's not a unique problem, but a universal one that I see no difference between east and west, but forgive my deepest love for my country, I need to point it out and slap my hometown in the face, and I'm hoping more can stand by me.

I'm never a person of aggression, or someone who raise their voices to get heard. I'm not a courageous person in lots of ways, but don't you see the people suffer and don't you feel the pain of being unable to help in any significant way? As I was typing away right here on my Mac Pro, my parents are just getting back home, yes, my home that is 14 hours away in flight. They have to put on face masks when walking outside in the sulfur air under the grey skies. You can barely see the charming scene at the Bund.

There's hardly a tyrant since Qing Dynasty now, yet one way or another, people suffer because of natural causes and various invasions. Wars and social reforms, left millions of people live under water for what it seems to be, eternity. Indeed China "opened for business" after 1949, but many of the psychological doors are still slammed shut. There isn't a sense of freedom when it comes to arts, and expression. Still, it's hardly a unique problem but something I have experienced in almost every country I've been to, yet based on my own familiarity, my dearly beloved mother land, really needs to open her mind a little.

It's a sad site in Greece when Byron paid his visits to the ruined temples where gods supposedly once resided. Those structures are listless, and like tombs of their past lives instead of the monuments they were meant to be. Like in Shanghai, highrises and fortresses of department stores, have become trophies of superficial commercial achievement, but without substances.

Things don't change, progresses can never be made unless we move forward without pauses. The notion of slowing down and smell the roses doesn't exist in the development of societies. It might sound harsh, but I say it with only love and sincerity: one is only alive when looking forth and moving forward; boasting about what we've done in the past is like making a eulogy, and laying down a coffin for a person still alive.

There's so much to see, so much to do in this world, beautiful and probably never to be perfected. And human being a species so fragile yet powerful, so cowardice yet ruthless, so insignificant yet sometimes one can make such a huge difference. It's a beautiful thing to be living at a time of despair because you see much potential, and step one, is to be optimistic and kind.

What Byron saw in the Souliotes is determination, without which nothing can be achieved. There's no shame in temporary failure as long as it's recognized. The most dangerous situation? Lying on our backs and talk about "remember when" and "we used to". That would be the real images of shame.

II : "Tambourgi! Tambourgi! thy larum afar"

Growing up, I used to go to all kinds of military trainings at school as part of the political, cultural or who knows whatever kind of programs. I didn't care the least bit about the ideals, or ever looked forward to the ever so boring disciplinary routines: we would go to a training center in a park-like "resort" in the suburbs of Shanghai, where we'd march down the bridge in uniforms, and practice how to use a rifle... as if that'd ever be practical knowledge in your life. Of course, there's always something to look forward to, and the campfire nights are certainly in that category. The entire class of, well, class of 2008 if I remember it correctly, would be called a battalion, and each class a platoon. I'm not an expert on military terminologies, but you get the picture. The entire battalion, as I was saying, would sit in the square, each platoon occupying their own designated area. In the center of the square there's a gorgeous campfire, and we'd just stare at it all night; and there were performances from each group; and at the peak of the night, we'd start to sing. First each group their own songs, one by one, and gradually it becomes a unison of chanting, of something we all know, a melody engraved in our hearts whether you like it or not. Those are mostly songs from war times, with lyrics that no longer make much sense today other than something metaphorical, but sometimes they still make waves of emotions surge up inside of you, and make your spirits high.

 

I remember moments like that in my childhood, and moments like that in motion pictures. One of them, when I say it you'll recognize, was when those people all starting singing La Marseillaise in Casablanca. It's an emotional moment that makes you shed tears even if you're not French. And then there's that moment when the dwarfs sang in unison in the Hobbit. Their voices are almost as low as the center of earth, which makes you feel as if the memories of your past lives are flashing back right in front of your eyes, and the images of your ancestors fighting in the battle fields, relieved all over again.

Then there's the Souliotes' war song Byron offered, a complete translation of what he heard on that peaceful night after a stormy sail. Those "barbarians" with dark skin and wild locks and nimble limbs, chanting and calling out to the gods and to each other: it's war, war, hatred to the enemies and love to the comrades. In the miniseries version of Byron, which I mentioned before in previous posts, there's a modern rendition of Tambourgi, re-imagined by the screenwriter and director in order to recreate that moment that Byron remembered so well, which eventually carried him back to the shore on which he heard that song. I sincerely believe that the moment when Byron first heard the strange war song he couldn't entirely understand, is when he first felt a sense of belonging, a sense of serenity after all those years out on the sea and faraway from home.

It's not certain what the original tune would be like, but why does it matter? There are songs that doesn't requite a melody, but rather flow in the collective unconscious of human kind. it's also not certain whether the translation is entirely accurate. I'd like to believe that it's a combination of the original words and Byron's own reflection through his experience. If you read those words, it's quite understandable why Childe Harold's pilgrimage was considered controversial and threatening when it was first published in England. Giaours? Who would dare to use the word Giaours in the society where the church dominates political power?

There's a derogatory word for every race possible. People use them to drive away their own fear and cover up some levels of ignorance.

I doubt that common soldiers in the Souliotes tribe would sing specifically about Ali Pasha or the chieftain's weapon. Imagination can put words into moments in our memories, making songs personal to each one of us. Byron never forgot that song which turned his fear towards the Souliotes into understanding, and then respect. It's a strange yet not-so-uncommon thing to experience bonding with complete strangers with a culture you can hardly figure out... although today we call it democracy.

II : LXVII - LXXII On a Distant Shore with a Wild Heart

It was long ago and far away; it was a community united by war and despair, speaking an extinct dialect, surrounded by an aura of danger and mischief. It's a group of barbarians, or so they called them, band of misfits, blood thirsty bandits, and their existence threatens the weary sailors who happened to reach the shore where the Souliotes reside.

Childe Harold wasn't too crazy about those legends of Souliotes: those outcasts of both Greek and Albanian societies, expelled and had nowhere else to go; they are the Robinhoods on the shore, dancing and singing war songs around the campfire. Maybe they'd even kill their prisoners and drink their blood, like how they are described in stories. Simply put, Suli was the last place Childe Harold would willingly be if he had any other choices. And for the first time since he took off, for the first time during his turbulent voyage, he was scared. He felt a shiver down his spine as he feels his damp clothes, as he struggles to keep his weary eyes open.

They're about to anchor, and the rest is at the mercy of fate.

 

Coming just from Ali Pasha's hub, personally I wouldn't know what to think approaching the Souliotes. This pitiful group of outlaws have been in conflict with the tyrannic ruler since 1803, and there doesn't seem to be a perceivable end. Comparing the two sides, anyone would feel sympathetic to the Souliotes: these are the soldiers without proper food or equipments, whereas Ali Pasha, as we now know very well, is having it all: his luxurious lifestyle, his relentless spending... He was respectful to Lord Byron, we'd learnt about that, but him being hospitable couldn't change Byron's contempt towards him. As for the Childe, he's mostly overwhelmed by the journey by now. The crust of waves pushed his ship up and dragged him down as if to the depth of hell. And when the spirit is low and the body has succumbed to exhaustion, all one asks for is some stillness.

 

Suli had been the least likely place for Harold to get his blissful rest. But he, along with everyone else on the ship, was surprised by the locals who offered the Childe not only kindness but also stirred up his curiosity, restored his spirit. (It's quite believable that this experience led to Byron's eventual leading in the Greek Independence War, but that's thereby another story.)

It's rather tricky, the work of our hearts. We always feel the most fondness towards those who happened to reach out to us and lend us a hand when we're at rock bottom, even when they're the most unlikely bunch of people we'd make friends with. In universal sorrow we make the strongest bond and form the greatest friendship, though sometimes incomprehensible to the distant spectators. It's all in perspective.

Harold sees unfamiliar faces on people who speak an entirely different language, wearing strange costumes and moving in ways, the meaning of which he couldn't quite grasp. But their kindness opened his heart and he found beauty in their ugliness, forgiving their ungentle characteristics and perceived their vulgar nature as simply something he's yet to familiarize.

In a world without prejudice and hostility, the construction of babel tower would be simple task.

At dusk Harold joins the Souliotes for their feast. The local break out a banquet for the guests from a faraway land, who talks and dresses in a way they wouldn't even try to understand. Their intentions were simple, though might not be understood by the cynical, overly sophisticated minds from "civilized societies": to feed the hungry, to sooth the tired, to care for the poor in spirit, to be merry at the simple happiness and to celebrate the victories in protecting their land.

Sometimes we claim to look at different cultures and different people of the world with an open mind, yet we wears filters through which we speculate the world we live in too much, too constantly that we forgot about them. It takes a lot of courage to rip them off and cast away the standards we're all too familiar with when taking in something new and initially hard to swallow. I guess Harold's situation makes it easier for him, on a distant shore with a wild heart, when there's nowhere else he can turn to.

The Souliotes chant their song as if it's a spell. No doubt they sing it to the gods they worship, but they mostly sing it to themselves, to forget about their tragedies, to sooth their wounds, to gather their courage and to fight on when the sun comes up in the morning.

Byron included a complete translation of the Souliotes' war song in Canto II, which I'll talk more about in the next post. Stay tuned and we'll meet again soon.

Mr. K and His Kompositorium of Keys

 

I've always had problem with keys. Oh no, no, no it's not microphobia, no not metallophobia. Maybe subconsciously I've acquired nostophobia, but that's a far stretch of an explanation: I've been losing em, breaking em, accidentally dropping them into voids since, well, feels like it's been since the beginning of time. As a matter of fact, one of the few things I make sure to have within steps' reach whenever settling down at a new place, has got to be a reliable locksmith, along with a non-Starbucks Cafe, a print shop, and a Duane Reade (or the equivalent).

Greenwich Village is never a place to settle down; the concept of living in that time warped area simply sounds our of my reach. On a good, sunny Wednesday morning if you walk down 7th Ave, you'll see the pavement sparkle, and the slightly shivering branches in the April wind, still give you a chill sometimes yet already lost the fearsome bitterness of its vicious wintery slashes. And that's where, or maybe I should use WHEN, you'll find Mr. K's tiny storefront.

Mr. K's name has nothing to do with the letter one associates with post modernism authors or casino royalties, but it just seems proper to code him an alias with the letter that symbolizes the holy relic of his expertise. If it had been a rainy day, or when the weather is something urgh-some like, overcast, or cloudy with confusing winds, you'd probably walk right pass Mr. K's storefront: tiny, entirely old, with subtle colour and an indescribable aura that you couldn't care to notice in your busy life, but rather just sits there, waiting to be discovered at the right moment when you're feeling up for it. It's a lot like something between dimensions, not in the reality but neither is it imaginary. It's not there, until you found it. And Mr. K's storefront is just like that. On a sunny day it starts to glow, and when you're walking down 7th Ave, it's almost impossible not to be drown to it.

First thing you notice would still be the name of the store, which would make you wonder, how did those humble looking fonts carved on a plate with fading colour and chipping paints ever, EVER make you stop your oh-so-important footsteps. "Greenwich Locksmith" it says, severely mundane, absolutely couldn't strike you as something worth noticing or becoming a tourist attraction. But then you see it. It's right there under your nose: a chair, or maybe we can almost call it a shrine, composed, quite impossibly, entirely of keys! As a matter of fact, the only toothless part of the thing is its steel frame, which I think could have been constructed with keys too although it could seem overly deliberate and honestly, what's the point? No it doesn't look like a Marcel Duchamp. Yes you can sit on it; I did, and it feels like... it feels like... it feels like sitting on a proper chair. Well what do you expect?

But the craftsmanship you can tell from every inch of it, the details of every stroke of ingenious efforts, the space between the shapes which those keys, between Mr.K's fingers, morphed into, make the piece of furniture seem animated, as if it breathes through those key holes. Mr. K remember those keys, each one of them, although he only looks at them occasionally. There's always a story where every single one of those keys come from. As the sunlight gets reflected on those tiny pieces of metal, those stories are released once more, making the chair as though a creature, sitting still yet nevertheless alive... after all, what is there more to life than stories? Mr. K remembers those stories like stars flickering on the edges of the smooth shapes of the keys, cutting across the spine, lingering between the teeth, ever more clear with each turn and each twist,  There had been are quarreling young couples, veterans who couldn't recognize the oak three by their front porch, school children with tears on their cheeks and dimples on their faces, trying so hard to figure out where they had left their keys.

It's as if a silent record player, inside of which you know there are beautiful songs, but its mysteriousness makes it even more desirable, haunting, an object in a time warp, everlasting but never quite present. Mr. K mounted more keys on flats, with which he covered almost the entire storefront. He was finding new definitions for his very own pallets: the subtly different colours between each pieces of keys he picked out, which he arranged and rearranged till them twirl into remarkable shapes as if from a dream. Squint your eyes and you'll see: dozens of blazing sun glowing and freezing in time; ethereal creatures floating and morphing into an ocean of the strangest organism, and then as if exploding from a volcano, everything chaotic yet inexplicably beautiful.

I was dazzled by the moldering compositions of keys. Those thick, ravishing pictures are full of history, and stories; of course there are stories, piles and chunks of stories hidden between the layers and loops of keys as if well kept secrets, waiting and looking for opportunities to sparkle again.

There's no one but Mr. K to tell the nuances between those silver and gold, and bronze, and copper red spots, and green streaks seeping out through the gaps of age. It makes you wonder, makes you stop and contemplate when you feel the coldness of a key between your fingers. It makes you imagine what stories it might offer, whether a fine romance happened behind the apartment door it helped to keep secure, or a tale that can make your hairs stand, or a travelling soul who's reached uncharted waters and climbed the steepest cliffs. You can tell the depth of those colours if you stare at Mr. K's compositions long enough; they are voids into the black holes of the collective memories of an entire city, portals to parallel universes spinning all around you yet never been discovered.

Keys are what you use to keep, or to uncover secrets; it opens but also locks doors and passages to different worlds; one side of it intrudes and inquire, and the other defend and breathe; it's a tiny piece of metal on which you see the grove and edges of the essence of civilization. Its look? Mostly excruciatingly insignificant, but at times exquisitely detailed as if containing magical power. Mr. K is just the gate keeper, sitting behind the counter where he created a whole new dimension of secretes and stories, all of which between his fingertips. You'll probably find a story of your own somewhere in Mr. K's Kompositorium of keys. A clue: first unlock your heart.

Check Out Mr. K: Philip Mortillaro's Site   

The Swing Girl

 

When we are not travelling...

There’s this girl I know who swings. She stands on the plank, holding on to the chains that link the pendulum and an endless stretch to the unknown. He hair glows under the moonlit sky, her lips curves into a wistful smile, her eyes sparkle with lots of courage, and fear, and uncertainty of her prospects.

I can hear the chains squeak each time she swings by, suspended in time at one point, then fall with a speed accelerated with gravity. Her dress thrashes as the wind brushes upon her.

Beneath her, is profound darkness, abysmal, distant; you can hear the running water and its ferociously echo. Home is just steps away on the shore behind. It’s one of those things that you know it’s there but always out of reach; she’s too much in the action to really turn her head now. A familiar force pushes her up against the invisible obstacles every time she swings back to that shore. There’s mother’s embrace and friends’ fist bumps. “We’ll catch you whenever you decide to let go.” They say. They’ll be disappointed, surely, but they will catch her, surely. In front of her, a light shimmers through the darkness, from a path that leads on towards the future. She’s just one risk away from it, as long as she let go when she swings up towards the other side, she would let go, and leap, before gravity pulls her back down again.

Yet gravity pulls her back down again and she skims across the night sky, her feet rip apart the stillness of the atmosphere. She starts to try different things, picturing in her head, that the next time the force propels here upwards, it’d be the chance of flight. And on the grassy shore there’s serenity, optimistic plans, and lots of next steps.

There are spectators all around her, passing swiftly across the air. She’s suspended in an absolutely open space, yet simultaneously amidst a crowd of strange figures, with blank faces and movements as light as a feather, weightless, almost floating, almost transparent, surrounding her, omnipresent figures. And patterns made up with passages and words, chopped up and reassembled together, bustling about and filling her entire spectrum. She would hear voices, murmuring a familiar melody that she couldn’t seem to recall.

And she keeps on swinging.

At least the last time I saw her, she was still there, suspended between past and future, living her every moment pandering whether to let go of herself to the unknown, or to the deliciously dangerous temptation called, failure.

Both options take courage. And I heard one of the spectators say: “what a wonderful performance this has been!”

PABT 212

 

Have you ever found it frightening that once you have learnt someone's name, their existence becomes part of your memory and consciousness; have you ever regretted not striking up a conversation with some strangers you found interesting at a station, on a train sitting next to you, or minding their own business at a Starbucks yet all the while seeking an antidote for loneliness. Missed opportunities of, there's a Chinese word for it, Yuan Fen, as we hustle underneath this dome of azure.

There's an old man on platform 212 of Port Authority Bus Terminal, NYC, origin of coordinates that connects the forbidden paradise of spinning life in the big apple, and the suburban reality that people settle back in with their children and pet, their lawns that need to be mowed, well, last week, and a squeaky side door they have just put on the to do list for the next leisure Sunday brunch hour. The husband would take out the tool box as the wife prepare for scrabbled eggs, homemade, somewhat experimental, peanut butter pancake and cold slices of bananas on top of hot oatmeal.

The old man, whose name I'm still reluctant to find out, pays no attention to any of that details of everyday life, those tiresome, never ending chores for young couples who haven't gotten their feet on the ground, still fighting for survival with salaries that barely cover the rent, food, train tickets to go home once in a while to visit parents and siblings, whom they talk of with loving loathe and argue with in shame and pride; oh yeah, and occasional rush tickets to some Broadway plays, which they would call extravagant expenditure with a sophisticated purpose and a smart aura what can smooth out the self justification.

No, the old man never pays attention to any of that. He's probably in his 70s, or a young 80s; he's lived through two world wars and a couple of economy plunges thrown in here and there during his lifetime; and hunger, and despair of an entire nature; and now he's got a stable life, still healthy and without hardship thanks to his conscientiously done lifesaving. He usually wears a plaid shirt, the color of which is close to a crossover between pink and beige, and a pair of brown tennis shoes with a Loui Vuitton brand mark on the side, which he probably bought at Marshall's for their comfort and any other practical reasons rather than their semi snobbish last name connected to those rubber soles. He wears a pair of glasses with metal frames, round edged, slender and sensibly made at a least trendy but decent optician of traditional high quality. And jeans: blue, over-washed. He holds a dogeared pamphlet, in which numbers and letters are tightly woven together that looks like what you'd see inside of a beehive. Those are bus schedules with notes of up to date changes he jots down in the margin. He flips it through, cross examining its accuracy; sometimes when the platform is not too crowded, he would play crosswords and sudoku on the newspaper; he would fold the paper into a tight square he could keep in his palm; he would tap it with a pencil, trying to figure out the next letter or number to put down.

I usually see him in the middle of three winded queues stuffed in the small space of platform 212, on each side of which are half-vandalized schedule plates with outdated schedules. And at 3:02 pm, you can hear him, "NEXT WILL BE 165 LOCAL AT THREE O FIVE, UPFRONT GOING TO WESTWOOD. GO RIGHT UP FRONT IF YOU'RE GOING TO BOULEVARD EAST!" and he yells to the dispassionate crowd whose shoulders bend with invisible cocoons that they weaved themselves with misery and hot musky airs in the offices, in the streets with panhandlers and toddlers yelling and screaming for no particular reasons.
 
And then it's 3:08, after half of the crowd squeezed out of the lean space of the boxed platform like a tube of toothpaste, new commuters arrived and attached themselves to the rear. I'm now in the exact middle point of everything, hostile and stagnant, irritable crowd with mundane, but nevertheless life-and-death matters on their mind, not in the mood to talk, or chatting away loudly on their phone in Spanish or Korean, neither of which I can eavesdrop even if I wished to.
And still there's the old man's raspy voice, not too loud but you can hear each syllable clearly:
"NEXT BUS AT THREE TEN 166 EXPRESS AT DOOR 1. MOVE UPFRONT IF YOU'RE WAITING FRO BUS 166"

And now it's 3:16. If I'm very lucky, there will be only a handful of people outside of door 2 waiting for 168, and I would be able to lean on the glass wall with my au bon pain soup or deli store sushi before the hour long ride into Teaneck. The claustrophobic space can be existentially large when your mind starts to wander off to some other dimensions. "He's a little late today," I hear him talking to a passenger who looks like he's going to experience an anxiety attack, "usually 168 comes a few minutes before 3:15, and it takes off on the dot. Be patient." He mutters to himself with a smile that seems to have engraved between the lines on his face: "He's a little late today. Oh there it is!"

I see the bus pulling in with a humming sound. I follow the queue and one by one passengers start to push through the glass door and step into the bus, spacious enough for a person of normal size to turn and dash to their seat, yet doesn't allow you too much liberty to move around or start feeling the rhythms form your headphones.

The old man would greet each one of the passengers as they pass by him, whether there's a response, a nod back, or a blank stare, sometimes even resentful as if saying: mind your own business you old nuisance. But he never seems to be effected one way or another.

Usually I don't say a word to the old man except once in a while there's a "have a good one", or "how do you do", or just a smile as I push through the glass door that links the platform and the bus, both of which seem to like a pair of suspended space that don't exist in reality but rather, two metaphorical entities that carry me from one phase to another. And the old man, as if the only constant factor within that ever-evolving organism, remains nameless yet indispensable, to platform 212.

One time we got to talking, don't even ask why, or how the chattering started because I never knew... it was one of those situations that just felt right to strike up a conversation, to ask a question that has always been on my mind, on everyone's mind, we the regulars of platform 212. The old man, I found out, employed himself as a guide at the transit center. "I know most of the information on this route." he says, still smiling that engraved smile, "Not all the buses here, but these, the ones that goes on Boulevard East, I know them in the back of my head." he says. "And I like to be with people, and offer them help." he says. Sometimes he would linger by the ticketing booth and teach travelers how to use the self-service ticketing machines. I started complaining about how often they break down and give me a hard time. He smiles and keeps on talking what he does on platform 212.

Sometimes I'm there at a different time and the old man isn't there. He's as though a house elf of the platform 212, only appearing at the busiest hours. Have you ever felt a place empty where there's just one person missing? And that old man, is like an old tree that makes up an entire forest.

Maybe tomorrow I'll ask him, "sir, what's your name?"