ArtWalk

I covered this year's Art Walk on Mar 11. Here's inside Osage Gallery, Soho:

Hong Kong artist Wilson Shieh's exhibition "Chow Yun Fat's Fitting Room" reflects on how culture takes on different guises--and subsequently changes--in the media. The process begins with the Hong Kong superstar stripped bare and continues with his evolving personas, along his gradual (and incomplete) immersion in the global cinema.

The show surprises the viewers for its demystifying the cultural icon. Chow's images--much loved and revered by the Hong Kong audience and film industry--are torn apart, laid on cardboards like possessions to claim or to discard at will. The artist's choices of mediums--acrylic, crayon, graphite, collage of prints--accentuate the toy-like touch, a hint of mock innocence. There opens up a gap between the spectators' ideal of Chow and their new-found perception. For some it may stir a feeling of confusion or even discomfort, since the artist's reflection has a subversive undertone.

The choice of Chow Yun Fat is apt for his international renown and Hong Kong people's sense of possession of the actor--the disassociation in the show can poke fun at the local audience's claims: "He's our star."

If the idea of fame disintegrates somewhat in these images, the exhibition still celebrates the star actor and the city's love for him. On my two visits to the show--on its opening night and during ArtWalk--the gallery was packed with both local and expatriate spectators, examining the metamorphosis of media and culture and the artist's craft. "Chow Yun Fat's Fitting Room" also marks Shieh's departure from his usual Chinese fine brush (gongbi) on silk and paper, though his meditated strokes remain on page.

This year's ArtWalk also featured the Cage Home Exhibition by the Society for Community and Community Organization, the benefiting charity of the event's ticket sales.
















(photo courtesy of SoCO)


For those of you who don't live in Hong Kong, cage homes--along with other cubicles and small partitioned flats--are accommodation for many living under the poverty line. Each resident lives in between 15 to 24 square feet, which are typically infested with mice and fleas. They keep their personal belongings--including cooking utilities--in their tiny cages, and share a bathroom with up to 30 other residents in the same unit. There're frequent stories of residents spilling hot water or soup onto their 'roommates' in the lower cages.

The rent of these horrid spaces is HK$30 (USD$3.9) per square foot on average. According to government statistics, there're nearly 100,000 people who live in these houses in Hong Kong, including low-income sanitation workers, new immigrants, the lonely elderly, and those living on the fringe of society.

Mr Jiang (pictured) was once a street hawker of fishballs and animals' entrails, until the business declined after the government stopped renewing hawker's licenses in the 1980's. Odd jobs didn't last long, and it became increasingly difficult for Jiang to find work in his 50's. Now 62, Jiang lives in a cage home with a dozen other residents and suffers bedbugs' bites on daily basis. Since there is no kitchen in the unit, everyone buys take-away food and Jiang only eats twice a day to save money.

Select Fiction

Finally, the unavoidable: posting select fiction in a public space. The majority of my earlier works were published in print. Most are not listed, a few are posted on this blog, alongside the links to my online publications.

I'll start with my first serious story, 'Back Street', which was published in Yuan Yang (a literary journal by HKU - in fact, I was in the group of students who founded it) in 2000. This story has been reprinted a few times, used as 'course materials' in some writing courses in tertiary institutes in HK, meaning it's a minor success in its own right. All the while, curious readers have wanted to ask: Poor dear, did this happen to you? Talk about the power of fiction!

Checkboxes

We thought they would be back on after the 10th anniversary, but they didn’t, not even after our President and Premier were gone. The police sure did a good job: a dozen web sites were wiped out overnight; search engines and forums were disabled the next day. What happened to our favourite girls in Hong Kong, spilling out of their see-through nightgowns, stretching their legs on leather swings?

“Everything had to be nice and rosy around the anniversary. The new police head liked to put up a show,” Dave, a regular, wrote on one of the few surviving forums. Everybody joined the discussion; we wanted to know what to believe and what to expect.

“Fucking idiot. Did he think our country’s leaders would click away at girls’ profiles in their hotel rooms? There’d be hookers knocking on their doors.”

“The cops knew those classifieds through and through. They’re looking for something to hand over to the state security.”

“Maybe some mainland officials have been spying on us.”

“Diu ! What if the web sites never come back?”

We remember the disappearance but we’ve given up hope. Night after night I hit the links to what used to be the most popular sites, to get reminded (“The page you requested no longer exists”) or told off (“Access denied”). Some of the babes – like the model chicks and the Hunan girls – have moved to the only web site that is still fully functional, which got a facelift in July. There’re rumours about a change of hosts. It has anti-drug and AIDS testing banners popping up.

Monopoly or not, it beats not having anywhere to look. There’s not much for me to do after I get off work at midnight, when most people have wined and dined their friends or snuggled up with their sweethearts in bed. I used to get high and crash a club with my high school friend Ted, before he got jailed two years ago for selling cocaine. I always told him to switch to something more profitable, like smuggling.

“The kids are getting high in discos in Shenzhen nowadays. Or they get cheap supplies from there,” I said. “If you’re a smuggler, you can work with some mainland gangs.”

“I’ve been in the same business for years. How the hell would I get into a smuggling ring?” Ted said.

I didn’t know the right people either, not after Ted got locked away and the rest of us went separate ways. I was a fake anyway: I squirted the stuff in, jerked for a few minutes on the dance floor, before Ted or somebody else dragged me into a room. When the other guys were lifting asses and thrusting their way in, I clung onto a girl’s knees and drooled.

It didn’t take long for me to clean myself up. With all the talks about quality improvement going on in Hong Kong – indoor and outdoor air, fresh and frozen food, import tea and export figurines – I got a job at a university-run quality evaluation centre. They’re hiring in large numbers. I had years of cold calling experience before. Then I got a part-time job at night and moved out of home.

You’d want to cop and squeeze a few good sets at night, if your day job is to check boxes: “Excellent”, “Good”, “Fair”, “Poor”, “I don’t know” in a call centre. Most people who take the time to answer are students, housewives and middle-aged men with singsong voices. Every now and then you get a guy who mutters. “I don’t know,” the guy breathes into the receiver as if he’s stroking himself.

I lose track of all these check boxes on questionnaires and my computer screen, when I go home to browse the day’s new profiles and user reports. Age, measurement, price, location; hand job, blowjob, anal sex, overnight stay. We search for girls who pass for dreams for people like us, the “brothers” who boast and buzz in their concise sex scenes. “Her pussy ran like a river.” “I got a whole lot of cum on her face.” We look for wisdom from one another’s encounters. “Three stars for figure; four stars for service. Recommended for small tits lovers.”

These user reports are a big deal, since the host’s comments on the girls’ profiles are paid advertisements. Many of the pictures are studio shots or touched up. There’re few pictures of the streets or the buildings.

“It’s too hard to find the right alley. They all look the same in Mong Kok,” sexero, a premium member, complained.

“The prices of these new girls are a bit steep. I wouldn’t pay $700 for this dark-skinned chick.”

“To each his own. Every babe who’s on here must have her fans.”

“I doubt it,” Dave wrote. “Some of these girls must work for the host.”

“This web site is fishy. It lacks transparency.”

It used to be easy to find the gems when there were multiple sources. A lot more white thighs and pink nipples danced before our eyes. The girls’ moans were louder, closer, more diversified. On weekends, at four in the morning, I sat listening to the echoes and read the latest posts. Hundreds of Hong Kong men, young and old, were still surfing the pages and swapping notes. “Thanks for your detailed report. I’ll give her a shot.” “She sounds yummy but I don’t like tall girls.” “I’m new to this. Which girl do you recommend?”

I watched the ups and downs of the number of visitors online at the corner of the web page. It carried me through the night, made me feel connected to the world out there. Some of our “brothers” must have left their homes and walked into a dark alley in Mong Kok, the neon lights along Temple Street, or the quiet of Observatory Road, to enjoy a new Korean girl on the market or comfortology by an older whore. The rest of us, invisible companions for one another, wailed and bragged in our own rooms.

We still ask about the old web sites but there isn’t any news. There’ll be others, or the current one will do. Everything’s cool as long as we have fun.

Except for some of us who’ve lost contact with our favourite girls. Cindy never gave me her mobile phone number. I never asked. She had a place in Sheung Wan when I met her last summer. Early this year she moved to Tsim Sha Tsui on a short-term lease. On her voice mail she read out the security code to her building in a sweet and hesitant voice, as if she was reading somebody else’s script.

When she opened the door to me for the first time, she was in a dark blue satin slip. There was just a touch of blush to her cheeks. She told me she was twenty.

“I used to do part-time sex at a karaoke pub when I was at school.”

“You look like a regular girl.”

“Thank you,” she smiled, brushing her freshly washed hair.

I visited Cindy once in every couple months, until her profile got wiped out along the classifieds. Her landline didn’t work. I asked around the forums, but nobody had her contacts. When I last saw her in June, the police were clamping down prostitutes in Kowloon.

“They won’t let us stand around the streets, or they come up to our flats and send away customers. Our landlords have been talking about rent hikes,” Cindy said. “You want a smoke before you go?”

“Have we got time?”

“You can stay a bit longer.”

I lay besides Cindy and studied her tits, the familiar way they slinked off and gathered at her top ribs. She wouldn’t let me nip, but I liked her just the same. Cindy has a petite figure, a round face and lovely toes. The other guys didn’t like her service as much. “Not very professional,” they wrote. “Jerked me off too hard. She looked annoyed.”

Cindy would blow me for as long as I lasted. Unlike most guys who boss their whores around, I let Cindy do the work most of the time and watched us in the wall mirror. The flush of us was ups and downs and hot and wet. She swung her ass from side to side. I didn’t always feel much when she did that, but the view was exciting. I copped her tits or held her waist, waiting for her to scream. It sounded abrupt, almost severe, a far cry from the careful delivery by most other girls. Her face was impatient and eager. Her lipstick was smeared.

We kissed a few times. I always gave her tips.

I finished my cigarette.

“What’re you going to do if you get kicked out?”

“What’re you going to do?”

I stuck my fingers in her mouth, pried it open.

She pushed my hand away.

“What about a second shot?”

“Any discount?”

“Fifty bucks off.”

“I’m buying.”

That was the last time I saw her.

Maybe she stopped being a slave to the check boxes.


Published in 50-50: New Hong Kong Writing, Hong Kong, 2008.

http://www.havenbooksonline.com/index.html

Along Nathan Road

I press a key with my index finger. The image of the letter “J” flashes on the screen. It comes into existence before I realize. This fictional character called J. He will be something I am not. Different ethnicity, background, gender, occupation, personality. At the moment he lives where I live, this city called Hong Kong, a foreigner who travels around the world and works odd jobs. He likes a tiny, local Chinese girl. He is quiet and reserved. He is twenty-seven.

And the story?

I don’t have a story myself. I will make one up for him as I go along. I don’t know how it will turn out, or how many readers the story will have. Most likely none. I don’t care. I want to create this world for my character, who lives a life of his own. He will find a way out of the world he is locked in. He will walk away from me. I will let him go.

If he will let me go.

* * *

The last note fades. Sparse applause. J puts his violin away and exits the stage. In this pub restaurant noise echoes in the recycled air, smelling of steak, wine, perfume, cigarettes, boredom, pretension, money and flesh. The ceiling is too low and the tables are too close and the customers are clashing into one another. Space threatens to swallow anyone who is conscious of the surroundings. In the changing room he looks at the pores on his face in the mirror. His skin looks smoother and the laughter line has faded since he came to Hong Kong two years ago.

He calls his mother in England and told her so. She laughs and says, you don’t get any younger, love. He says, it’s warm and humid here, not like Wales. You should come and take a look. She laughs harder till she bursts into tears. Come back, she says, I’ve been alone for too long since your father’s gone. I can’t, he says, I’m not used to being at home. One day I’ll go away, but I can’t go back.

* * *

The ashtray falls on the floor from the edge on my desk, showering the ash over the junk next to my chair. Mind your steps or you will crush a CD or stumble into a pair of shoes. Life among garbage: I have given up on my life in this place. Everything collapses. My mind nestles into the mess.

Let’s look at my character. It is a he and he plays violin; works in a pub at night; comes from Wales; talks to his mother; has a dead father. All these are fine: nothing resembles my life. The fictional world is not: J is too conscious of himself and perceives space as if it’s his universe. The lines: “boredom and money and flesh” and “the whole space threatens to bury…” have to be crossed out. What does it mean by “The ceiling is too low and the tables are too close and the customers are crashing into one another?” Actual details, please. It is a public, a shared world.

Wales: seven hours behind Hong Kong. The pretty Welsh boy I talked to for two years and slept with for two weeks; who married a woman twenty-six years older back in Wales; the friend who disappeared in my life. What is he doing on the other side of the world?

Humidity 89%, the radio says.

* * *

Outside the pub the band disperses along Canton Road at the heart of Tsim Sha Tsui, TST being the heart of Hong Kong. J stands in front of HMV. A man bumps into him and growls. Fortress: washing machines on sale. Body shop: new whitening and suntan products. Delifrance: a café that does not come from France. Chinese department stores: crap Chinese antiques fooling the tourists. Times Square: a shopping mall imported from New York. Local kids: Japanese fashion. University students: spoken English with American accent.

J lets the crowd push him past the train station towards the traffic lights. The light flashes. People begin to run. At the crossroads J decides to run too. On the other side of the road he hears some Indians bugging a tourist to buy a fake Rolex or to dine at a restaurant or to have fun with a whore outside Chung King Mansion.

Chung King Mansion: the 30 or 40 or 50-year old building with cheap rooms for tourists or tiny apartments for ex-pats, mostly Indians. The scene of adultery, robbery, prostitution, drug abuse, fights between triads, domestic violence, suicides and murders. The human odor, the smell of substance, of blood. The contrast between light and darkness, between life and death.

* * *

A knife sticks out between the letters on the top of the bridge. Where did Delifrance come from? Is Times Square from New York? Do my classmates really speak American English? Does that mean spoken English with a relatively American accent? I speak one that is a mixture of American and British. Does it matter as long as I can communicate? Should my character come from Wales since I have never lived in an English-speaking country? Would someone point at the dialogue and say, girl, you got it all wrong?

There is no choice. I perceived my character to be what he is, and so be it.

* * *

M looks tiny leaning on the red wall. Fat Angelos on Canton Road. Chicken Marsala. Chicken cooked in Marsala. J has never heard of it before.

-How tall are you?

M looks out of the windows.

-Four eleven. You?

-Five eleven.

They laugh. Her curly hair shakes on her breasts. Her breasts shake harder. Her teeth are as neat as if she had worn a brace for years. J picture her as a model for toothpaste commercial on TV, or for lipsticks in a magazine.

-What kind of modeling do you do?

-Studio photography.

-Hard work?

-Consuming.

-How so?

-Wait for hours. Do the same pose for thirty times. Make a blank face and expresses something.

-You do that well.

-You never know what turns out in the end.

-I’d like to see it.

-Check it out at Yuen Tung Arcade.

Two weeks pass. J walks on from Chung King Mansion and reaches Yuen Tung Arcade. Leather and a fake tree in Timberland. Women with pancake make-up in Duty-free shops. Dummies with paints flaking off their nails and toes in fashion boutiques. Shinning certificates on the walls of clinics. Studio one two three. There she is the model of deceit. A close up of her – taller than the real girl. Sleek make-up and a faint smile. Curly hair waiving on her bare shoulders. J traces the features on her face and pretends he knows the life behind them. Yet they are dead. Frozen on a piece of paper. He smashes the glass in his mind. It cracks, breaks, collapses. Her face stands naked in front of him. Yet it blurs, retreats to the invisible margin, disappears. It ceases to exist. It has never existed. He must have made her up, his phantom lover. He must have been too bored. He must have gone insane.

* * *

T moved across the bar and opened ten bottles of beer in a row. At the end of the bar she held a friend’s hand and danced behind the cashier. The glasses hanging from above gave a dim red glow. The wine on the shelf fluctuated like neon lights of various colors. I followed the light sliding down her smooth skin and rested my eyes on the full breasts under the black top. She handed me my drink.

-Pussy foot. Makes your internal organs go all red.

She winked and went to wash the glasses in the sink. When it was done she turned around and grabbed her pizza, eating it while talking to another bartender. This tall curvy woman with power all over her body, bouncing here and there with her Starbucks coffee; resting her elbow on a cupboard, her hip pointing my direction. I wanted to run my hands along her waistline and bend over to kiss her belly. I wanted to lay her on the bed and caress her breasts, floating oval shapes, throbbing life. I wanted to go down on her, pleasure sending her senses spinning, singing its praises between her thighs. I wanted her to push me away so I could keep the intensity by not keeping it, the urge still surging within.

-You’re quiet.

W put his hand on my arm.

-I’ve never hit on a girl before. I don’t know what to say.

-Wanna go?

I finished my drink and waved at T.

-Stay a bit longer.

-I gotta go.

-I’ve been waiting for you.

-I don’t believe you.

-I do, every weekend.

-I’m going anyway.

-Take care. Ok?

I leant forward for a hug and kissed her on her cheek.

-You too.

Crowd thronged back and forth along the streets of Lan Kwai Fong, major clubbing area in Hong Kong. I took W’s arm and tried to chat.

-Quite a chick, eh?

-Yes she is.

The ghost from the past that kept appearing in my dreams. Took the form of a lost friend who I was reunited with after a lost, lonely time. The classmate I ran into long after we graduated, who chanced upon my writings online and read all about my desire.

Look away from the self. Focus on the story.

There is no story to tell. I have nothing to offer. Except my life. How do I frame it if it is not even as dramatic as soap opera; how can I make my fiction inspiring if I cannot spice up my fantasy? On TVB Pearl a man is sitting on the toilet with his pants down. He is calling his wife with his cell phone asking her to bring him some toilet paper from the living room. Advertisements and creativity. I cannot even produce this kind of crap. As I am writing I imagine someone listening. Who is there to listen? Who will read me; who will publish this story?

* * *

J sees only lights wavering along Nathan Road. On fire. Across the Temple Street dishes chopsticks tables black white blond red green purple hair in an endless row. He pushes through the stalls and the bargaining customers. Second-hand electric appliance cell phone pornographic VCDs magazines duty-free cigarettes smuggled from China fake Rolex Polo shirts Calvin Klein Underwear; accessories silver steel fake jade of different shades crystals tinkling under grabbing hands and inspecting eyes; lighters boxes bottles posters paintings nail clippers scissors rings dug out from the graves violating the departed from the mysterious ends of the world cracking splashing on the ground; dildos of various shapes colors materials and yawning hawkers. Fortune tellers light the lamps lift their glasses smooth their hair with water arrange their cards and stories examining the customers palm with bank notes spread on the desk. Fate foretold. Fate sealed. No going back. No escape. Everyone lives a long and healthy life. A bad life turned good. A happy ending.

At the end of the Temple Street J gropes for his keys in his trousers pocket and feels the void in his head. In his head he turns around hoping to see someone he knows. Someone who will at least greet him with a smile. May even go for a drink and chat about their recent lives. London. Florence. Prague. Stockholm. Istanbul. Hong Kong. In every place he has lived every street he has crossed at every corner he has turned he can almost pretend there is someone waiting to speak to him as he turns around. Together they turn into an image in a picture exposed to all across the streets over the city. Vulnerable. Untouchable. Secured in a frame. Created with affection. Kept in safety.

There is no one when he looks again.

* * *

People say it is the same sky and the same sea and the same earth everywhere in the world. At least that is Tim Winton says in one of his stories. My teacher said Winton had never traveled outside Australia when he wrote it. I have traveled to a few places, and Turkey is considered exotic. Does that put me in a slightly better light than I have imagined?

It does not matter, I suppose.

Look at the junk that circles my place. This numb existence. Nothing happens in this life, or nothing has happened for a very long time. Everything has come to a still point. School. Work. Friends. Plenty of guys. All is nothing but self-pity. An ego-centric universe that the self is locked in. It’s me only – it’s only me. And a mind that has gone adrift.

Come back, I say.

Get out. Get away. Get yourself somewhere, it says.

* * *

The morning breaks. J pulls his blanket over his head. Sinking. The water caresses him. Farewell to the last twenty-seven years. Farewell to the unknown violinist. Afloat on waves, his violin breathes and weeps to him. Sparse applause. Clap – clap – clap. Farewell to all. Clap – clap – clap.

Something crashes into a car downstairs and triggers the arm. He opens his eyes to the light.

* * *

Shut the painkillers and sleeping pills from the sight, the drawer crashing into the desk. Close the file and switch off the computer. Go to bed and sleep.

Wake up. Today.



Published in Nuvein issue 17 US: 2003. www.nuvein.net

Back Street

“Papa, where are we?”

“At the back street, at the end of the street we live in.”

“Why are we here?”

“I’m here to play.”

“Can I play too?”

Papa raised his hand. He was standing against the sun; his face was dark. I drew a deep breath to keep myself from crying. I did not want to be slapped on the cheek.

“We’re going up to a flat. I’ll take you to desserts later. Don’t tell anyone that we have come here today. Did you hear me?”

I nodded. My head was heavy. I kept trying to tear my hand out from his. If I turned around and ran inside the crowd Papa could not probably catch me. It was just one street. It is the ‘Women Street’ in Mong Kok. The whole street is a fair, where people are always thronging back and forth, grabbing and bargaining over the cheapest goods. Clocks, watches, accessories, bags, clothes—the panties with pink fur. Mama yelled at me when I asked her if she had got any.

It was no use running home. Grandpa and Mama were working. Grandma had gone out. I had a fight with my neighbour XiXi the day before. Maybe I could get lost. Then when Papa found me, he would be crying and would not beat me. But I did not want Mama to cry. The only time I got lost I went to a policeman. The moment I saw Mama again I grinned and thought she would say I was clever, but she just held me and cried.

“My life is hard enough!”

Her tears rolled down to my forehead. I wiped mine away at once. Mama would cry harder if she knew I was crying too.

So we came into this back street. Trash was spilling out from the black plastic bags. Soft drink cans, plastic bottles, paper boxes—red and orange, blue and green—the colors clashed with one another and the smell of rotten food. Next to the trash was a metal gate. The sun shone on the silver but not the rust. Above the gate were the thin black frames, and old posters of movie stars on the windowpane. On the walls pasted advertisements that blew lightly in the wind. They read: second-handed cars for sale. I must have made some of these details up. I have come back from time to time to make sure it is the right back street, and it looks about the same as how I remember it to be.

Papa pushed the gate open. I could hardly see the stairs.

“The stairs are so long! It takes all my strength away. How can I have fun then!”

I had never seen Papa giggle like that. I was panting but I did not want Papa to know. We might be climbing up the stairs and panting in the dark forever. We might never get out from this building. That would be better than lying dead in the Woman Street. I would scare those hawkers to death. Papa and Mama always felt sound asleep before I did. Sitting between them, I could not help looking out from the windows.

The stairs ended. There stood another metal gate, painted in green. The dark brown of the wooden door looked dark red, like blood that had dried. Father strode towards the door and pressed the doorbell, which was covered in dirt and fingerprints.

“Honey, I’m coming!”

“Hurry up!”

So the blood melted. A pair of fake eyelashes was flashing behind the gate. The eyeline and eyeshadow had melted into a thin dark circle. As the woman opened the gate Papa started giggling again.

“How have you been? Busy?”

“Many customers today. Is this your daughter?”

“Her mom has to work today and I have to look after her. So troublesome!”

Papa dragged me into the flat and we sat down on the sofa. The woman closed the door and leant against it. She was wearing purple, semi-transparent dress and brick red lipsticks.

“Why bother to have a family then. You can always have fun here, right?”

“Of course! My wife can never do what you do.”

Papa held her by her waist and leant forwards to kiss her. She glanced at me.

“Let’s deal with your daughter first. Little sweetheart, will you be a good girl? Don’t run around or touch anything. If you’re bored watch the streets. Papa will take you home soon. How old are you?”

“Four.”

My voice trembled. I often saw Papa with different women. Sometimes it was the same woman. Sometimes it was a new one. They all asked the same question, “Has your Papa taken you to meet another woman?” I always said “No” as Papa told me to. I did not want to upset them. Sometimes they told me how I looked and acted when I was a baby. I thought they liked me because of Papa. But this woman had been staring at me so hard till I sat up on the sofa and looked out from the windows. Her voice was so thin that I wanted to cover my ears. I had never imagined seeing Papa with such a woman. I had to clench my fists to stop myself from shivering. I had to look at the sky; the cars on the road; the pedestrians on the zebra crossing—to forget the sound of the shower.

A door opened. I turned around and sat down on the sofa, my ankles on my knees, my hands on my ears. Another door closed. I put my hands down and scratched some plastic off the black sofa with my fingernails. There were lots of scratches on the white walls, some longer ones were filled with dirt. In front of the sofa was a white plastic table. As I stood up I saw a bowl of soaked noodles and a pair of chopsticks. Next to the bowl laid a heap of magazines. Noise was coming out from the room in the dark corridor. It thundered in my ears but I had given up covering them. On the first page of the magazine the woman had her whole body bound with ropes and her legs spread. Papa was growling and the woman screaming. I knew what they were doing, but I could not picture it in my head. The woman on the next page was squeezing her breasts. I stood there and read on. The noise stopped. I jumped up to the sofa and knelt looking out from the windows. The clouds were moving fast in the sky. I heard Papa’s footsteps and begged myself to weep, or to at least look shocked.

“Hey, girl. We’re going.”

Papa was combing his hair with his fingers. I sat gazing at him though I could stand up at once. The woman appeared, her semi-transparent dress swaying under the fan. Her grin was different from those of other women that Papa went out with. I was waiting for Papa to look at me again, but he was smiling and whispering something in the woman’s ears. I had seen Papa doing this to a woman for many times. Maybe a man always does this to a woman other than his wife.

“We’re going to have desserts. Don’t mention this to anyone, not even Mama. Ok?”

I nodded. I always told Mama that it was only Papa and I when we went out. I did not want her to run away from home again.

The woman hugged Papa, and pinched my cheek as she said ‘Goodbye!’ to me. The blood melted again. Papa pushed the green metal gate closed. I was glad that he did not hold my hand as we walked down the stairs.


Published in City Voices: Hong Kong Writing in English from 1945 to Present HK: 2003; Hong Kong English: Autonomy and Creativity HK: 2002; Yuan Yang v.1 HK: 2000.

7 11' Tales

My latest fiction publication (in case you missed the link on my Facebook):

http://www.asiancha.com/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=328&Itemid=149

Back in my high school days I fantasized about working night shifts at the 7 11' in my hood, which was Lai King, a depressing district of public housing and mini-buses on long stretches of roads. I was up all night anyway, why not make money out of it? But I knew I wasn't tough enough for the job: too thin-skinned against the late night intruders, their suppressed yet erupting egos.

I never got over my fascination with the microwave meals. A couple years ago - I was already living on HK Island - I saw my muse walking into 7 11' past midnight. He's the middle-aged guy at the beginning of the story.

***

I have a book review published in a journal in India. For that I was paid less than 7 11' wages:

http://www.biblio-india.org/tocJF09.asp?mp=JF09

It all started with my vanity: Wouldn't it be cool to have the publication credit? Regret crept in when I was confined to my book stand and the keyboard for half of the CNY holiday. In the end, writing reviews is no fun for a creative writer. It feels like coursework in literary studies, only less intellectually stimulating.

The book is a memoir by a Chinese journalist who writes in English. The story is mainly her growing up in the 80's, during which China took off economically and fought an undercurrent of past turmoil and resistance. If anyone wants to read the review, you'd have to sign up, or I can email it to you.

I'm looking to give away the book. Leave me a message if you're interested.

In Courtesy of My Friends

I'm really a private person.

I can tell you about the sorrows in my life, my passion, my thoughts on arts and craft, but it's very unlikely I'll ever share with you my happiness. Happiness is the most volatile emotion I've known; I believed it only remains true if you keep it in an untouchable place within yourself. I rarely show or talk about it.

In the same vein, I've made minimal efforts in promoting myself as a writer. Now and then my writings - fiction, and other kinds of prose such as reviews - appear online or in print, in Hong Kong or faraway corners like Italy. Most of the time I keep track and show them to my friends; other times I'm oblivious until days after my words have become a reality on someone else's page. Rarely - if ever - do I try to shove my writing down the throat of a distant friend or reluctant stranger. Nor do I attend readings, seminars or meetings to socialize with my peers. I wish I could; I just don't know how to go about it.

If other writers are making a splash in the literary world with colors and tireless presence, I have yet to learn to do the same. My creative writing is what defines me; that's all that matters to me.

At the urging of a few good friends, I decided to start a blog 'for publicity' where I'll post my publications or writings that may help me find my place. Where this place is supposed to be, I have no idea. Compromise is the word of our lifetime; that's all I have to live by for now.

This title of this blog is in courtesy of my poet friend Steven, who sent me a Frank O'Hara poem of the same name.