The Power of Goodbye

Yesterday I lay in bed listening to David Bowie's cover of Wild Is The Wind (check it out - it's a very good version). I remembered the email I'd meant to write to S., my friend from Bulgaria who sails around the world as an engineer on a ship. In his last email S. talked about plans for a career change so he could stay at home with his wife and baby girl. Turning 30 he found his agenda in life; everything fell into places.

Seven years ago S. came down to Istanbul when I visited the city. Straight out of the army, S. had a honey-colored tan, ocean blue eyes and an amazing sense of direction. During the day he guided me through the city with a backpack on his chest and a map in his hands. Navigation was easy; conversations were not. For all his intelligence and energy, S. was a conventional guy who got bored when I took pictures of a cat at the mosque. I was touched by the effort he made to meet me, but it was hard to spend time with someone when you're on different channels.

When it was time to say goodbye on the forth day, I started sobbing at the bus stop. Here's someone who lived in some faraway land I might never see again! Bidding farewell conjured up emotions in me that only existed at that moment: I hated to deal with the end to a connection even though I'd secretly wished this person would leave me sooner rather than later. My grief vanished once S. had hopped on his bus and I'd turned around to dry my tears. I bounced off, half humming to myself, and went to meet my friend Umit who's my host in Istanbul.

My emotions may have gained some substance over the years but my nature hasn't changed. I tend to wait for others to say goodbye: through the act the parting I exercise and exorcise all the feelings I don't otherwise seem to have. There've been departures which saddened me and people I miss, of course. "Are you feeling cold?" a friend asked when I was trembling in his embrace. No, it's not the air-con, I just think we'd never see each other again like this and even though you're still here, in my mind you're already gone (you're crushing my arm).

The recollections of S. made me think of a time when I was very much alone. November 2005, to be precise--I reread my old diary and found the entry I particularly liked, titled 'Cry Me A River':

'I recall long shadows of metal frames of my balcony on idle afternoons, candle frame burning in the small hours and dying before the light breaks. Early in the morning I fall into a dream where my kitchen is on fire and a very small child is crying for help, but there's no exit and the child climbs up the windows and as he's about to fall, I try to rescue with my will, try to bring him back with my scream knowing it's futile since the only logical end is that he falls over and dies. The electric drills and garbage trucks then invade my sleep and I don't know if I've been rescued from my nightmare or brought back to a world that I can't make sense of because I don't understand the the light on my eyelids...

There's something I'd say about my not writing in my diary. It's usually when too many things happen and none of them has enough weight. Other times they come together to start a fire within me and as my vision begins to blur, I have tears in my eyes that magnify the characters wandering in my mind, living newly-formed beings that have vague faces, shapes, feelings, thoughts but not purposes. I look harder and try to trace their beings, stories that will, if I feel for these creates enough, translate into concrete existences and come to life, lives that I relate to and sympathesise with, lives that shed light on and accompany mine as I walk around in those fictional universes feeling more alone than ever. Sometimes they so consume me that I mistake their lives as mine and I don't want them to get hurt, don't want their stories to end--I don't want to let go, but they don't belong to me.'

This is why I haven't written back to S. in months. Dear S., I have my direction in life too but it's something you can't understand. In my world I'm always living the power of goodbye even before it happens but right now, I must stay where I am and wait for these beings to come to me.

On My Reading List

Ismail Kadare is an Albanian writer and the first winner of the Man Booker International Prize. The story is an existential whodunit: the death of the successor unlocks a series of totalitarian horrors, in a Kafka-meet-Dostoyevsky kind of tale fused with an incredible sense of humor. The most enthralling aspect of the novel is Kadare's portraits of individual personalities--and their ill-fated compassions--in a dehumanized universe.

My writer friend XuXi recommended Kadare to me upon hearing about my life in the Castle. The book is a delightful read, but the English translation--based on French translation of the Albanian original--reads pretty awkward at times.


















This book sat on my bookshelf for a long while. Who needs a larger-than-life story set in some exotic location and time, when you're resolving the tedious dilemmas in your own life? The novel is a fictionalized account of Thompson's experience of working and living in San Juan, Puerto Rico around 1960. Think a rolleroater of illicit love, journalism and hard drinking--so much for the swinging 60's and raging youths!

I finished the book in two days once I picked it up. Reading The Rum Diary reminds me life is moving too fast to worry about anything or anyone at all. The moment I put the book down I was all exhilarated. See how fiction can get into your head...


















Here we enter the world of a self-loathing Henry Nagel: a man who has never had a true friend beyond his high school nemesis, no woman of his own but only wives 'borrowed' from other men, or a decent position at work by any stretch. On the brink of turning 60, Nagel still nurses his infantile insecurity while contemplating the possibility of love. Is there a woman who would love Henry even though he has never been a life?

British author Howard Jacobson spins some wonderful irony in this novel. Nothing much happens in the plot and the characters are neurotic--but they come into their own and engage the readers as the story draws to a bittersweet close.

For Julien

Here's Julien Tatham, a filmmaker in Paris. I meant to write this entry shortly after his wedding day on September 12 but then I slacked. I also owe him a visit in Paris - year after year I say I'd go, so let's hope I can make it next summer.

As one of my closest friends, JuJu (as he's affectionately called by his friends) has the following 'distinctions': 1. He's the only person who can always make me smile with a simple thing he says - something that shows how deeply he knows me or how similar we are; 2. He's one of the few people I'm totally open with because that's how he is with me. In our early days when we could still see each other, he'd look at me during the course of a conversation and say, 'You're not smiling' and I'd have to confess. 3. With sheer insistence, Julien made me get on the top of a crappy chair and do a rather indecent dance at 5am; 4. Between Julien and me I'm 'Co', short for Colette; 5. I can't remember a time when I didn't know Julien.

In other words, Julien is the one who knows my passion. We met four years ago at a moment when we'd both just gone through tumultuous times in our lives. Our connection - the interests, perspectives, hopes and passion we shared - was a source of consolation when we're picking our selves up in pieces, looking forward to a future when we'd dream and love again. At one point Julien and I fell out over some harsh words, but our hearts stayed connected and there was never a moment when we thought we'd let each other go.

After that Julien and I had parallel lives. We emerged from our hurt and seemingly entered new phrases of security, until discomfort and confusion crept in. Had we misled ourselves to believe in attempts in living a stable life? How long could we live with this involuntary coldness in our souls and stay in the wrong zones? The havocs that followed are history now. Even today, when Julien and I speak of what we've been through in the last few years, we share the same thoughts and feelings as if we're narrating the other's story.

In our books there're two key words: Story, and Love. Every creative project or relationship is a story, and love is the motivating force in our lives. Beyond my armor of aloofness, Julien knows my true dynamic--to fall and hurt and to believe again, never giving up on the promise of love and creativity. Or this is how I'd describe Julien: many artists want to call themselves crazy, but Julien is one of the few who live up to this word. Craziness is the quest for truth even to extremity. Julien and his works are just that.

Our parallel lives took a pause when Julien met the love of his life early this year. In his own words, Joanne broke his preconceptions about love--the idea of building a love story--and let him reveal the truth of himself. On September 12 they tied the knot. I'm incredibly happy for Julien for having found his true match. And if our similar temperaments are anything to go by, I'd hope to stay my course and soon meet the story that takes me by storm.

The Waves

In the last two months I've been wearing a halo of happiness above my head. My work situation - the stress over money and future prospects - has dulled the glow of my halo somewhat, but that's reality setting in. Before you ask about the reasons for my current state, let me tell you nothing fabulous happened. My recent life has been a series of endings: relationships died or frizzled out; I quit my job, and other projects didn't pan out. There's no new prospect or presence in my world, though life can change at any moment. For a while I live a happiness that is independent of any external circumstances--I'm happy within myself.

If you've been reading my blog from the start, you might recall my first entry where I described myself as a private person who didn't believe in talking about happiness. I still hold the same belief: no one else would understand its significance to you, and happiness remains truest when you keep it in that untouchable place within yourself. Still, if you're one of my close friends or someone I have a good connection with, you'd have seen it when I wear my heart on the sleeve. You'd have heard me describe my excitement like it's a reality I'm holding in my hands. You'd have been there when I cry. You'd have seen me bounce from one situation to the next, as if I have endless capacity for living despite all that trauma. That in my heart of hearts, I see life with a resilience and optimism that few people are gifted with.

The problem was that for most of my life, I didn't believe in my capacity. For whatever reasons - the grief you have lived in your own life, witnessed or heard about - I thought I was a confused soul in need of normality. My life had no agenda: all I had was my vocation, passion, and a sense of independence that I didn't always put to good use. It was too unsettling to live through all those complex thoughts and relations and the intense emotions. When would I find my clarity, so I could put my mind to rest and live a productive life? Why did I live through so many storms and get cast upon different shores, when others had more or less smooth sailing? These people lived in the real world where there're a given range of motions, order and contentment; whereas I stayed a seeker, stumbling, sometimes weeping along the way.

Since my early adult years, I thought my quest was to find a balance between living in the real world and my eccentricity. Time and again I gave my shot at regularity, and it always died a sad death. For as long as it lasted, I made my efforts - solid at first, then half-hearted as I saw the impossibility of understanding. In the face of judgment my instinct was always to try to prove myself--until I closed down, which confirmed others' conclusion of me as a disappointment. In the end, it didn't matter if no one saw their own share of failure or my side of the story. Only I was responsible for my emotions--I stayed where I was even though I wasn't happy, because I didn't believe in myself enough to seek those connections that are equal to my true nature. Truths that are every bit as complicated, perplexing yet astonishing as myself.

It wouldn't be fair to say my recent happiness has nothing to do with others. There were sweet and passing moments; and I've run into a couple people who shook me out of my lies. There's a very wise young man - not a romance, mind you - who made me cry on the spot with a few sentences that more or less said: "In this life, stand behind your own feelings." I must have gone through the motions in my mind over and over in the past, but there came the moment when I made the decision to believe--that I shall always find the courage to take risks, to become the person I am. I think it's Conrad who said - excuse my badly paraphrased quote - that those who're inexperienced in life choose safety, while those who live forsake the ground and dive into the deep waves--and let the dark, angry seas hold them up.

When Happiness Came Into Town

Nancy Louzan & Damian Esell from Buenos Aires. Photo by Evangelo Costadimas.

Thanks to our teachers Candy and Anita, my fellow classmates and I at Trio Spin Studio had the privilege of studying with Nancy and Damian in an one-week intensive tango workshop in September. The workshop covered a good range of techniques from walking and the rhythm of vals to more 'fancy-looking' figures like colgadas.

While some of these concepts were hard for beginners to grasp, Nancy and Damian broke down the movements into simple, easy-to-follow exercises we could pick up in 1.5 or 2 hours (on the weekends we had multiple sessions in a day). Every movement was a revelation--we learned to control our breathing, our bodies; to connect with our partners, to immerse in the music and the closing in of space in a way that we had never dreamed of. At the end of each day we left the studio with sore legs and joyous hearts, having taken a great leap in our skill and understanding of tango.

On Friday night we had our Grand Milonga, where we embraced fellow dancers from Hong Kong and overseas visitors, and witnessed the passion of living through tango in the maestros' performance. On Saturday night, after the workshop some of us went to have dinner at a cheap Cantonese food stall inside a wet market, our laughter fluttering under swaying fans. We toasted to our future Sunderland--a tango community in Hong Kong we have yet to found, to celebrate music, dance and friendship. What more could we ask for of life?

On their last day in town, I spent an afternoon with the maestros and their baby boy before I saw them off to the train to the airport. Nancy took a moment to go fabric shopping--on our way back to the hotel, I told her they brought us a lot of happiness for being such wonderful teachers. "I'm glad," she grinned, looking youthful in the summer sun.

* * *























Here's Jimmy reading the brochure of October Contemporary. I've known Jimmy for about four years and he, too, is a journalist. We're the kind of friends who would have late night chats online when either of us ran into trouble--probably for that reason, our connection was mostly confined to words and we rarely hanged out when he still lived in Hong Kong. A year ago he moved back to the States. I got teary-eyed saying goodbye: I had hardly come to know this friend and he's gone!

Last month Jimmy's back in town to visit his family. He's often writing near my neighborhood, so we caught up for dinner and things like we never did in the past. It's interesting to discover more about a friend you've had for a long while but feel you don't really know--to take in their presence, to see their thoughts and reaction. I was happy to see Jimmy, and I wish him good luck back in NYC.

Resignation

I've been very happy these past couple months--until all hell broke loose in my job yesterday. Most of my readers here have heard all the funny stories and complaints about my office, so I'd spare you the details. It was a good enough job in the last three years: flexible (i.e. slack) schedule, freedom in choosing my topics, mostly nice co-workers. The old-fashioned commie anecdotes are straight out of a Kafka novel--I've stayed away from most of it; a feature writer doesn't clock in everyday.

True to the nightmarish commie fashion, the position of feature writer officially ceased to exist in my office. It was wiped out like chalk on a blackboard: the marks were fading fast and they're covered by new commands, until I, along with this lady who shares my fate, got herded into the daily news yard where a new team leader now growls daily, at all of us: "I'm a tough and seasoned man." Or that was what happened in the commie universe when the reality eluded me for a while--I took some time off after a tango workshop and only returned to work this week.

Yesterday my fate was sealed. The words of a commander-in-charge cast an iron net over my desk. I was pushed into an abyss from which I screamed, No! and the only light of salvation was to sit down to write my farewell note. In the Castle, a note often means confession, repentance and ultimately, oblivion in a world of organized glory. But I was diving into a different current that would take me out of the Castle and straight into joblessness. Still the threat of poverty and stress seemed golden compared to the daily growling.

Today I did the ritual of handing in my letter and explaining my grief. "My dear Leader," I said in broken Mandarin, "you know my Mandarin is bad and if I'm here to talk about it with you, this must be important." Dear Leader was soft-spoken and receptive, but the situation couldn't be helped for the time being. Not until an upheaval happens--a complaint from an external Force of Motherland about political incorrectness in our work--can the hierarchy be shaken again. Before then, I must leave and wish everyone luck.

It struck me that despite having fervently desired to leave for a while, I'd never played out the resignation in my head. After I walked out of Leader's office and got back to my co-workers, I felt the same as I did on any other day. No sense of liberation or joy; nothing at all. Not even an impending sense of doom that I should feel at the prospect of frantic job search or going broke. I expect to go broke--it takes time and luck to sort out one's work situation, and I don't feel luck is on my side. Clearly, I just don't care anymore.

Still, one has to hope for the best. In the mean time, I have one month to collect ideas and make notes for my short story collection about life in The Castle.

To The Power of China

photo courtesy of Jeffery on fotop.net



On October 1 the world watched China's parade of extravagance and obsession with power. There was celebration around Hong Kong too, parade featuring compulsory participation of local school children, fireworks, exhibitions and whatnot. This year's buzz coincided with the Fire Dragon Dance, an annual celebration of the mid-autumn festival (think moon cakes), in my neighborhood Tai Hang. From what I've heard, the fire dragon dance started as a religious ritual to repel evil--before all the reclamation in Hong Kong, my district was close to the sea and big about goddess worship for protection of fishermen. Now it's one of the focal points for local photographers, or travelers who come into town at this time of the year.

During the three-day festivity, families and shop owners in Tai Hang have barbecue on the streets into early morning. Children stay up, play with their lanterns, bikes and pets. Some elderly turn up the volume of their Mandarin oldies or Cantonese opera. On such nights the cops drop by to remind people to keep their voices down, but no warning or parking fines are issued. Everyone is free to enjoy themselves.




















My national day holiday has been quiet but exciting in its own way. On October 1 I spent the day reading, then saw District 9 with my friend Jimmy who's back from NYC to visit his family. There's no way for me to gauge if it's a good SF or entertainment film--I rarely see such movies and I went because of dear Jimmy (I bet he isn't reading this).

Later in the evening I hopped over to my filmmaker friend Derek's, who has movies of every imaginable genre from every era in his home collection. A rare find is a pirate copy of Andy Warhol's Chelsea Girl--according to Derek, the DVD was in print in Italy for one year and then deleted. Apparently some film bugs in China had the foresight and resources to get hold of it, and preserve it in high quality, cheaply priced pirate copies that ended up in the 'pornography' section in a local DVD shop.























Thanks to her mastery in making fake copies in every kind of merchandise, China has risen - in the mind of people like Derek and me - as the preserver and promoter of some of the world's finest art house films in the last few years. If you can't find the DVD of an European independent film, come to Hong Kong and get one for US$3.5. It'd be the best version available - French edition detailed production notes, Italian edition with cast interviews and additional footages. There was even one mainland Chinese who came into Hong Kong to sign pirate copies of his movies, on sale at a popular DVD shop that was later slammed down by the police.

Another surprise for me was the Korean director Hong Sangsoo, who captures the hopes and disappointments of the mundane with light, accurate touches. The settings, characters and plots are utterly realistic, yet they surprise through comic juxtapositions. A loser leaves a failed business meeting, checks into a sordid motel room and waits for a prostitute. Afterwards he showers and sees the condom has gone missing. Frantically he washes his penis and rubs it with toilet paper, as the call girl looks on and laughs. The next shot is the guy in a clinic, having a blood sample taken for an AIDS test.









The Day a Pig Fell Into the Well (1996)



The best is when this loser sits down in bed, looking absolutely deflated--his round arched back and his fat belly stand out like true signs of his pathetic existence. Both Derek and I are amazed by the casts. Was it brilliant acting, or where did the director find actors that embody the essence of his characters so well? Here in Hong Kong we're lucky to have access to amazing movies from around the world. I, for one, celebrate my city's connection with her motherland in bringing in these wonderful movies. Here's to the power of China!