“Did I really speak? Have I ever really spoken?”
Posted by 丫 | reply »please meet here and now
An Appointment
Alexanderplatz, Tuesday, 27 January 2009, 18.00
[photo by 高灵 Gao Ling]
This is your latest minute notice to our meeting and appointment. Please come to Alexanderplatz station, the platform of the U8 line, between Le Crobag bakery and the Presse + Buch shoppe. Apologies for having been so late all the time lately, does 18.00 sound like a weak quantification of all the things i haven’t caught up to yet?
Please meet me, even if we don’t know one other. No one knows each other here, so let’s just try to remember that fact of all that we know we don’t know, that feeling that you next to me may have noticed it, too.
Mostly we’re ignorant. But I wanted to meet you anyway, an appointment in and of itself as a time and place predetermined. A context embedded into itself, choking, documented. Itself, itself, itself.
And a broad, come with—-first-time everything…
——–
An Appointment is part of the continuing PUBLIC research project by Elaine W. Ho and Fotini Lazaridou-Hatzigoga. Organized as a daily series of experiments, interventions and discourses, PUBLIC aims to examine the potentiality of latency and open spaces made possible in the relations between individuals and publics. Other activities are posted here. Some are open invitations to all, others are unannounced insertions in different locations throughout Berlin. 22 January - 1 February 2009.
不用老对我那么乐观, will i ever get tired of trying?
it’s been a long time (每只蚂蚁都有眼睛鼻子)… southside neighbour says our house’s coffee is so fragrant (它美不美丽偏差有没有一毫厘有何关系), and i can smell your breath every time i think of you, the last shock that you’ve been a grown man for a long while now, and it was something i never knew (每一个人伤心了就哭泣). does being near you change, the smells of the same old street at different hours of the day (饿了就要吃相差大不过天地), does it feel comfortable over the phone (有何刺激), even if she is waiting?
it’s been a long time (太多太多魔力太少道理)… a 500ml jar with a rubber stopper (太多太多游戏只是为了好奇), it was nicer to be a bit more abstract but he wanted to smell it. unfortunately, it was exactly that supposedly removed. Scent travels through air (还有什么值得歇斯底里). Your hair is longer and more done-up now, even in the windy streets out there, the clicking of your low-heeled boots, I like the awkwardness of getting to know you. It’s almost as good as knowing you too well, when we don’t have to speak anymore, and it doesn’t feel bad to not know what you’re thinking (对什么东西死心塌地). Thank you and no, no no.
It’s been a long time (一个一个偶像都不外如此) …to feel ill (沉迷过的偶像一个个消失), my throat hurting after sitting with you all wet through dinner. You didn’t know I was completely soaked, but the food was spicy and you asked awkward questions after I showed you my work (谁曾伤天害理谁又是上帝), and then I met your friend and we didn’t eat until just before the moment of missing the last train (我们在等待甚么奇迹). It’s been a long time since I came this way, and he uses his new car to pick up rides in the evening, A bit of extra spending money (最后剩下自己舍不得挑剔). don’t fall asleep on your way home, okay?
It’s been a long time (最后对着自己也不大看得起)… I try to use the right pronouns in the right places this time (谁给我全世界我都会怀疑), your loving of my use of “we” means that it is all i can offer, all that i hoped for (心花怒放却开到荼蘼). We is I or I is we. We is I is we is I is we. I thought about it in the shower when I came home (一个一个一个人谁比谁美丽), I thought about the most memorable showers I’ve ever taken (一个一个一个人谁比谁甜蜜), I thought about what it would be like to be you, I thought about taking back some of the things I’ve learned over these years (一个一个一个人谁比谁容易).
the sky, really, they say…
(又有什么了不起/每只蚂蚁和谁擦身而过/都那么整齐有何关系/每一个人碰见所爱的人却心有余悸)
[《开到荼蘼》 曲编: c.y. kong 词: 林夕]
Posted by 丫 | reply »reflections, some nights before the incident
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we drive into the night. not a soul. hardly a light. darkness and four lanes. and the vast abyss. enormous factories. chimneys. machines. conveyor belts. abandoned. left in silence. a grand rail station, concrete, steel and the dark. gas stations as pits of sand. dogs, astray. then, the chaos. the mess you forget sometimes confined in the capital and its delegates. truck upon truck upon truck. load upon load upon load. and coal. like black soil. rows of trucks parked along the highway like a derailed train. waiting. for a call. a sign. north (the privileged) or east (the lacking). cardboard boxes six meters high, heads up on the highway. excuse me, i think i’ve lost my way. mapless, pointless, endless. east ring south ring west ring. east it is. day time now. two lanes. sea. goods. conformist transport for alternative transport. but how long will it last? how long will we last? he enters, sits, and it fills the room. “so uncalled for”. electric fingers. “knocking down the banks of guilt”. electric toes. loss and losses. they become a part of you. they are a part of you. hold on and learn or let go and learn. or repeat your ways to infinity. nothing ever changes but we live in a place that is ever changing. the television set. handshake upon handshake upon handshake. so and so and his wife. so and so and his wife. the park shows an “ethical culture show”. where do we stand with ourselves. so many things left unsaid. left undone. forgotten. did we really meet someone that so reminded us of him. too many people have come and gone. not sure where dream and memory and story meet. it was the characters name in the latest chapter, but ‘v’ replaces ‘w’. what answer are you looking for. you keep pushing the question. it’s in the way you arrange your life. the way you do. the way you are wrong. the way you are right. just watch and you’ll see. we can’t say but we can do. or better yet, we can be. it’s one big, humongous run. another puff. he goes away for business. her baby is finally born. it was a girl, no? never had friends from that far away place so i’ll give you my number. a monolithic sculpture at the centre of the square. that image returns, as it does every now and then. a cap, a green coat, a dark night, frost, and the light, and the light and the stare, a memory like a photograph, lacking the evidence. here, now, tube lights, all white, in motion. the centre of one square kilometer. and la-din-wu. latin dancing. 11-year olds. boys and girls. a bleached-haired teacher. a long way we have come from the spring that came again. no, we can’t allow foreigners. no we don’t have any rooms left. no. no. no the rules have changed. yes, oh, she too? no. at 4 am a yes. a man in pyjamas. faded glory. lions at the gate. emptiness. the secret floor. the 28th floor. the 8th room. 158 yuan. waking up to the foundations. the new. the next. things have changed. six months. )window.location='http://hotimg23.fotki.com/a/124_64/81_140/dancers.jpg' "dancers")
things have changed or are the things only surfaces.
what makes my vacation vacation
les ondes silencieuses
re: re:presentation
thoughts on the subject of clarity, or, in support of the seductive drones ///
If that longing could be drawn out, literally, it could have taken this form, what would have attempted a seduction in the most subtle and powerless way, or, would it be possible to ask you to stay. These are not questions so much as awkward statements, one would like the fluent strength of rationality, pretty scripts to address the subject, but so much said, so much would dull the edges of the discourse as much as anything. To abstain from that articulation may be a political statement, or even an uncertainty, but it should be possible to make exactly that wavering attempt, without course to addressing one’s audience as potential convert, without the determinacy of the commodified idea.
We have lost the ability to simply search openly, our lateral glides across hyperspace become hierarchies of large type and the diversities of ’state life’ mistaken for richness. But please do not misunderstand (…) …this is not a call for a return to authenticity or something more primal than the now. As such would be merely another flight. But to embrace all that we have not resolved, as seeking beings—-because we have not caught up to our own embodiment, urbanity, presence, or forces of habit—-can, with relief, never be clear. If it were, would we have conquered our own existences, overly latent, and been made subjects of our own subjectivity? Is this crass, or is it a call to vitalism? Would the critics of Coleridge sneer and we be comfortingly dismissed back to the ‘little’ motions of everyday life? Ha! Seduction.
Perhaps, but it is an embedded one. Everyday, everyday, everyday. The question is in the answer is in the question.
Posted by 丫 | reply »a quick study
without hesitation or ambiguity, he said, ‘it is like going to war.’ and almost as surely, i understood. through three generations, fifty-eight years, one thousand four hundred and twenty-one miles, thick as molasses blood, steady hospital landline, yuan fen. sometimes, all it takes is a little reminder and good time spent together. 
notes on love and writing, turning thirty again, obachans grin
To write is to permit others to conclude one’s own discourse, and writing is only a proposition whose answer one never knows. One writes in order to be loved, one is read without being able to be loved, it is doubtless this distance which constitutes the writer. (Roland Barthes)
::writing about writing, between shanghai and beijing, 2 December
today i become a writer. written self reading a purple journal like being in this airplane, oh i fucked up fucked up so many times, “it’s just that this year has been so full of small, stupid, non-descript disasters, not the big ones that could at least be identified as crisis.” sometimes in reading their words i describe my own surroundings, the small spaces around the page being written as we read others: (please fall in love with me). He is nonchalant about loose trivia on japanese aesthetics like mentioning the names of people he knows.
“The proximity of two differing individuals can become too intense.” (Arnold Barkus)
They are all your friends. And the more old friends that keep popping up in magazines, oh, we must be doing okay. And all the ones that don’t, that come up instead in cafés, in the airplane a couple rows ahead, on someone’s facebook friend list or just in my memory, well… we’re all sorry it turned out this way, we haven’t turned out at all, or against all, or we’re just turning…
so many things happened this year, i lose sight of the things that matter most.
but i’ll love you through the pages of a matte-papered magazine, and maybe that’s enough for today.
“30″, Binna Choi, from The Sole Proprietor and Other Stories, ed. Melissa Lim and Heman Chong:
Perhaps this sudden consciousness of my turning thirty has become entangled with my untamed anxiety, which stems from my own difficulty in being myself when with others. In other words, what mattered, bothered and concerned me can be summed up as my “relationality” with her, him, another me, different me, disappearing me or whatever, or the air, time, space or something. With her leaving and being. With him next to me or with him annoying me. With the density or stuffiness of air. With speed. With intensity…
I am writing about turning thirty, but in doing so, I could be seeking to deny or erase it. This piece is written in the present, about a somewhat unknown future that we are in the process of progressing towards. I hope that the significance of turning thirty will surface later on. You know, I will never be thirty - I will only be two thousand, two hundred and and seven years old next year, I bet.
Hence “writing about turning thirty” is a means of pulling myself out of the preconceived position one has as part of one’s culture or society. It is also a way for me to create an interstice for myself without deliberate avoidance of particular cultural or temporal frameworks. I am trying to prevent these aspects from governing me or my being with “others” within and outside of these frames. I want to take responsibility for my life or lives of others in mine, and ultimately grin — rather than laugh with sound — in the face of my struggles, strengths, delights - like that mad girl on a bus who glared at me as I stared back at her years ago.
Before I can reach this state that allows me to “grin”, let me pose a fundamental question: why do I write? I’d asked this same question quite a few times before, and I know that I have a problem with delving into it. Actually I even doubt that I had ever “written” in the most idealistic sense of that word. I reckon my fantasy is that writing for me is an opportunity to communicate in silence, to compose and liberate what is a part of me, be it my fascination, wonder, despair, concern, joy, beliefs, thoughts and so on — without being dogmatic. I want to believe that I make friends and love through writing.
writing having been written, between beijing and tokyo and los angeles and dallas/fort worth, 22 december
today, before leaving Beijing, it was written: “yes!”
There is no fear in that. No fear, no fear. Its beauty is impressed upon my skin as much as it distances. it was like looking again into the past. Every new realisation is also recognition of all that past in which you did not know it before! Linda didn’t get it at the time. Now she’s married and has dogs, surely she knows something we do not?
It was brought up again over dinner that that desire to cut off was as much the fear of being disconnected from. He cannot understand the difference between the cup there, or here, or there… And I thought we bought this salad. Well, you certainly didn’t buy me. But it’s the cup and the salad and the me and the you, and if we acknowledge no distinctions between any or all, how far can we go in attempt of love? Should we be left formless? Where would we go, and how would we know who we are anymore?
He reminds her that they are all connected. Of course, all these things are written into the body. Past is future is present, so just watch. I watch what i do not see: the big-eyed girl crying in secret, the small-eyed girl crying all day. I wish you could see more so that i wouldn’t have to explain anymore.
“Giorgio Agamben claims that the most important political goal is to find new ways to make the human body inoperative, in the sense that poetry makes language inoperative, to find new uses for the human body.” Would you want that I gave myself completely to you? Would you want that i agreed with everything you said, that everything that you wanted was what i wanted, too? I keep trying to think with those words, read from a monk when I was in Japan: “utmost reverence”. I try to say “yes!” too. But it’s not what I want. So please stop telling me everything you know about me. Because you don’t. And you won’t so long as your eyes stay wanting.
Posted by 丫 | more »You are watching. I am watching, too. We just don’t always see the same thing.
a few days later
still thinking about it
有可能，我们 ogichan obachan 的时候,还在想。你还会在我旁边吗？
a week is seven days. a life is ? weeks.
