The Loneliness

I woke up early in the morning and watched this video of Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love, talk about the source of creativity. In classical times, the artists' Muse was a divine inspiration, whereas in the last 500 years artists have embraced the notion that creative genius stems from within. For that reason many writers grow tormented as their inspiration dries up, or people even take to the fantasy that the creative process drains the writer's soul. Gilbert differs on this ego-based idea: creativity can hit you like a transcendent force, as much as you can nurture it by grinding away at your writing desk.

In my not-so-productive writing career so far, I've always believed the creative genius does come from without. The writer observes and absorbs life and her surroundings, but the truth that lives on the page is ever larger than the self. Forces come together, you do the job and create. My relative lack of writer's ego has spared me a bit of pain through the years, when I have little output or achievement to show. I write when a story strikes me, and I never change my voice just to get published. Other writers can bask in their glory; I can sit at home and think.

That doesn't excuse my lack of productivity, of course. In the last several months I haven't been writing fiction because - what an audacious thing to say - I've been plagued by the gap between an artist's mind and real life, among other things. In the mental realm everything is unsettling, constantly challenging; you contemplate on every move, endure ambiguity as a rule. But real life plays out according to norms, and the quest for certainty. In recent years I've tried hard to abridge the gap. After all, happiness isn't a solitary effort. There're compromises to make, some more worthy than others.

This morning, as I was watching the video, I remembered the pain I felt over this dilemma in my early twenties when I was starting to write. Writing was my life then: I was lonely, at odds with the world. It was my retreat, where I knew myself against the opposition and judgment of others. Then life went on a rollercoaster ride as I attempted to extend my heart and mind. This morning I remembered what I've drifted away from. I have to find the capacity to embrace it, to be at peace with it again.

I Write

I'm burnt out writing. I write for a living: news features, propaganda press, soulless profiles, overviews on art/cultural events and most recently, art reviews. In my own life I write to be heard: when I need to air my grievances in a public space; when I want to get something across to a person who's closed down or afraid; when I miss an old friend I can't reach except through words. At my best moments - when I find myself in the right emotional state - I write fiction. But fiction writing is a downward spiral of self-destruction unless you can separate your persona from the 'real' you, which I clearly haven't been able to do.

It has nothing to do with the myth of living for fiction. Once you know yourself as a fiction writer for life, there's no escape from retrospection. There're hidden logics and perspectives to every episode; different sides to a story you must understand before you make a conclusion. For short story writers like me, who believe in ruptures and open endings, the reasoning is infinite--there's no end to alternate explanations, present decisions and future outcomes. Why wouldn't I consider changing my mind if you have an opposing idea that could prove me wrong, or at least lead me to reflect on my course?

If you're still following what I'm saying, you're either a literature/humanities major, or one of the rare folks who have a curious and open mind. How would I know what's driven you to do what you do; How could I make you see me eye to eye for a moment? But life isn't fiction and life isn't a world where you can refuse to settle. For too long now I've lived my life by the wrong rationale. I'm burnt out writing--to find explanations for myself and reasons for others so that life seems like an open and fair place. I must stop.

A Chronicle of Death

I read only poetry when I'm frustrated or sad, and it's a change that hit me in recent years. Up until my mid-20's, I'd always found consolation in fiction that illuminates the dilemma of our existence. In those intersections of selves and conflicts is the inevitable logic which underlines our lives--you see your own paths, their impossibilities, the risks you must embrace. Fiction gave me strength, when I was looking for windows to the outside world so I could believe in myself.

Those years passed. By now I've devoured what great novels I needed to form my identity. I don't need plots or twists to make sense of life. The intensity of my emotions has not faded; it's grown stronger in a more subdued form. It needs no name, no explanation. I have no doubts. With such certainty comes pain that is ever more pure and lasting. No more questions about it: live with it, guard it, even if it defeats life.

Tonight I read The Stray Cat Cabaret: A Book of Russian Poems translated by Paul Schmidt. It's a collection of works by Russian poets from early 20th century, including Marina Tsvetaeva, Osip Mandelstam, Alexander Blok and others. In the introduction, editor Catherine Ciepiela mentioned a series of suicide poems included in the book: poets wrote tributes to their peers who took their own lives, before they succumbed to the same fate.



























Given the times these Russian poets lived in, suicide was a logical end to the persecution they endured. What about all the other writers who sought the same end? Beyond the myth of the tormented artist, how do such intellectuals with great passion for life give up living? Aren't they the ones who have a strong sense of identity, their vocation and position in the world?

To deviate from the mainly public/professional/literary nature of my blog, I'll tell you that in my own life, I knew two persons who committed suicide at a tender age. Both were close to me, they left an abyss which I still stare at between silent screams. Nobody wants to fucking die; they just want the pain to stop. That includes abandoned lovers who fall over at a moment of weakness; idiots who cause havocs for loved ones with some blunders they make; cowards who can't face reality; or unfortunate folks who've been struck by disasters or illnesses.

But those who have great intellect and eccentricity to share with the world, who love life for all its exceptions? It's only in recent years - partly thanks to poetry - that I've begun to understand. As Marina Tsvetaeva's politics of life goes, refusal is the truth if you're a truly different person: to refuse being ruled by the shame of common sense, in love, in art, and in one's connections with people. Others' expectations trample on you before you reach your openings; you're accused, unseen. When there's finally no place for you to give, how do you free your stifled passion in this life? Only the darkness of the end--only that can be your own choice.

Mystery Visitor

Last night, at around 9.30pm, I heard a male voice shouting my full name in Chinese downstairs. The voice was coarse, unfamiliar; I couldn't locate it in my memory of any man I've known in my life. Surely it was too early for ghosts, or private investigators--Why would one come to spy on or threaten me, when I haven't stolen someone else's man? I have no creditor except the Hong Kong government, to which I'm paying off my student loan dutifully by installments.

The shouting went on for several minutes. In between the drawn-out calls, I zoned out and tried to believe it was pure hallucination. Anyone who knows me would have better ways to get my attention. A stranger who's met me somewhere and happened to discover where I live: Wouldn't they have my contacts? If it's someone I met from work, it'd make sense that he knows my Chinese name--a very unique name, which I don't think any other girl shares in this town. But there're also my email and phone number on my name card. In responses to my friend EC's questions, I haven't purchased any items that required delivery in recent days. No shop clerks or delivery man would have my information.

Tonight I went to get some drinks at 7 11' past midnight. On my way back I had the eerie feeling of being watched; I stopped on the pavement, lingered for a while, turned around. A dark silver 6-seater which I'd never seen before had stopped in the middle of a crossroad about 20 meters away. Through an open window, a man whose face I couldn't make out in the dark waved at me, motioning me to go over. There was no one around me, nobody passing by. I looked at the car for half a minute. The man continued to wave, quickly, insistently. It was a very sleek vehicle of classy design.

I hid behind a shop. A few minutes passed before I looked again. The car was gone.

An Ode to Ferocity

In the dreamscape more real than life, I was sitting on a bed in my room. It was afternoon. The setting was some kind of communal accommodation, with girls' voices fluttering in the air, scrambling for attention. An alarm went off: a war had broken out. I was instructed to get hold of my valuables and to leave at once.

The whole place was shaking with a panic which eluded me--What had I got to lose in fire? What were the valuables in my existence: a jacket I couldn't afford to buy again if I lost it; my glasses, so I could see; my vanity, so I could pretend to be person I wanted to be in different, even most shattering circumstances? I held whatever possessions I could hold to my chest and moved along with everybody. It was a fine summer day outside. The mass exodus was utterly at odd with the bright blue sky and rays of sunlight on the buildings--it felt forced, meaningless, doomed to fail.

My certainty was no shield from the grief I had to experience, when I found myself on the train with families of refugees. Women chattered, clung onto their mothers and sisters; even in a surreal world they found comfort in familiarity. I was the only one who had emerged alone.

* * *

Talk about ferocious literary voices of persecution and history: Who could leave out the great Russian poet Marina Tsvetaeva? In Tasvetaeva is a pure genius and boldness that other women writers could only dream. To think of a poet who loved her art to extremity through exile and deaths, and her life until it reached its demise--a robe around her neck--one has to close their eyes to receive the darkness.

From Poems To Czechoslovakia

8

What tears in eyes now
weeping with anger and love
Czechoslovakia's tears
Spain in its own blood

and what a black mountain
has blocked the world from the light.
It's time--It's time--It's time
to give back to God his ticket.

I refuse to be. In
the madhouse of the inhuman
I refuse to live.
With the wolves of the market place

I refuse to howl.
Among the sharks of the plain
I refuse to swim down
where moving backs make a current.

I have no need of holes
for ears, nor prophetic eyes:
to your mad world there is
one answer: to refuse!

A Strange Dream

It began with a seemingly aimless journey around town with A., a male friend I can talk to but am not close with in my real life, on a sunny afternoon. Down the streets his parents and young wife - folks I've only ever seen in pictures - emerged, greeting me like I was a long anticipated guest. Their home was a regular household in HK: small functional rooms, square and bland lounge space where the sun seeped through white blinds. There was a hint of sympathy in their smiles, the way they made room for my bed in the studies, as if I was a homeless girl in need of shelter. In confusion I accepted my situation without comprehending it--How had I fallen, and how did I become a dispensable piece of others' world?

One moment A. and I were alone in his room, talking, enjoying our uncomplicated friendship; the next moment there was a scream. Someone decided I had seduced my friend. It couldn't be farther from the truth, yet I had no ground to argue against the assumptions of a world I'd found myself in because of my drifter status--I had been only safe and happy thanks to someone else's kindness, and I'd turned out ungrateful.

The surroundings changed into my friend's office, where his co-workers were all related to his family. The faceless characters joined forces in screaming and sneering at me. The injustice was too much to bear--the truth of my actions was pale in the face of others' perception of me and the circumstances. I cried, ran, reached the balcony. It was breezy and I was half dangling, ready to fall. The voices continued in the background; these people had no intention to stop, to be fair for a moment--they couldn't care if I died. I looked down at my end and broke into sobs. Was it my only answer?

At that point I woke up sobbing, gently, rapidly. For a second I thought I'd stopped breathing as I couldn't feel or hear it.

* * *

Someone heard about my dream and asked me if I'd been reading Murakami. My answer is No. Here's what I've been reading: Mr Cogito by another Polish poet Zbigniew Herbert, translated by John Carpenter and Bogdana Carpenter.

The Envoy of Mr Cogito

Go where those others went to the dark boundary
for the golden fleece of nothingness your last prize

go upright among those who are on their knees
among those with their backs turned and those toppled in the dust

you were saved not in order to live
you have little time you must give testimony

be courageous when the mind deceives you be courageous
in the final account only this is important

and let your helpless Anger be like the sea
whenever you hear the voice of the insulted and beaten

let your sister Scorn not leave you
for the informers executioners cowards--they will win
they will go to your funeral and with relief will throw a lump of earth
the woodborer will write your smoothed-over biography

and do not forgive truly it is not in your power
to forgive in the name of those betrayed at dawn

beware however of unnecessary pride
keep looking at your clown's face in the mirror
repeat: I was called--weren't there better ones than I

beware of dryness of heart love the morning spring
the bird with an unknown name the winter oak

light on a wall the splendour of the sky
they don't need your warm breath
they are there: no one will console you

be vigilant--when the light on the mountains gives the sign--arise
and go
as long as blood runs in the breast your dark star

repeat the incantations of humanity fables and legends
because this is how you will attain the good you will not attain
repeat great words repeat them stubbornly
like those crossing the desert who perished in the sand

and they will reward you with what they have at hand
with the whip of laughter with murder on a garbage heap

go because only in this way will you be admitted to the company of
cold skulls
to the company of your ancestors: Gilgamesh Hector Roland
the defenders of the kingdom without limit and the city of ashes

Be faithful Go

The Kafka Century

(The title of this entry is courtesy of my friend Amy - her description of the event is so apt I have to steal it)

The demolition of the Queen's Pier in Central - one of Hong Kong's disappearing landmarks from the colonial days - is forgotten news. Two years ago Hong Kongers bid their farewell on a fine summer night, marked their wishes on its pillars or waved silent goodbyes. The activists who guarded it until the last moment were removed by the police, and the video of the event reels like a roll of film on fire, burning in irreparable distortion.

The screams lingered on a long while. In the last two years, a number of these activists have been arrested and even jailed for the most absurd reasons. On last Christmas Eve, Julian Fung was served a 15-week sentence for attacking and injuring a police officer during a rally for universal suffrage in January 2008. In court, a Hong Kong citizen who partook in the rally--who had no affiliation with Fung or the organizer--testified under oath, stating Fung had made no such attack and the police officer staged his own fall. The judge dismissed the testimony: the witness was on the same ideological ground as the defendant, so the testimony was bound to be biased. Now lets disregard the truth of the attack for a moment. Could anyone accept such reasoning of the judge in High Court in Hong Kong, a civilized society whose legal system is generally known as efficient, fair and just?

The white terror continues its reign. Two activists involved in the Queen's Pier campaign, Dick Chu and Ho-Loi, were struck a delayed blow last week. They were served a bill of HK$270, 650 for the judicial review they filed for the conservation of the pier, which ended two years ago. Chu and Ho were recipients of legal aid, yet the government did the maths and decided they still have to pay. The only way out for these two activists is, of course, to declare bankruptcy. For people who'd risk throwing away their freedom and well-being, their prospects of job security and social acceptance, it's not a big price to pay, no?

Or is it? The government is launching its counter-attack on local concern groups, who are, at the moment, on conservation campaigns for a farm in the New Territories and a well-known bus terminal in Tsim Sha Tsui. Strip these activists of their cash, their legal status; send the concern groups into dire straits over fund raising and implicit future threats. They, too, may receive a large bill for getting into any legal battle with the government at any point in the future, during which interests of any unpaid fees will accumulate. Is it not too big a price for the Hong Kong public to pay, to let the conservation efforts dissolve, to embrace such white terror as the norm of our society?

For those who can read Chinese, you can read more detailed coverage here. In support of Chu and Ho, the concern group is calling for everyone to pledge a donation of HK$10, so the Hong Kong public can stand their ground against the government. Send your name, phone number and email to 10dollars4hk@gmail.com

Missing Keys

My keys went missing deep in the night; I could not reach home for a long while, not until I had turned my memories and possessions inside out, searched through conceivable spots and corners along my path to find the mysterious objects which eluded me for hours--hours that felt like half a life and truth in a grain of sand.

Back home I read Two Darknesses by Polish poet Anna Kamienska, translated by Tomasz P. Krzeszowski and Desmond Graham. Here's a short poem titled 'Silence'.

Every silence must be carried through towards death
so that at last it is immortal

And every smile and tear and glance
must be detached from what is fragile and finite

Even an oak leaf cannot for ever be happy on a branch
even a dove is not for ever on a window sill

What flies away will come back
what stays will sing

Silence is a memento after everything
faithful as if it were not silence after love