To kill a dead bird

Practical joker

2006-03-25T23:16:00.000+11:00

Unfettered. Untrammelled. Free.
Enchanting. Indeed. Attractive enough to be unquestionable, admirable excuses.
Have I said I need more time?
Have I said I need to be sure first so I want you to leave me alone?
I have. I know. Just like some kind of spell.

I opened my eyes, I saw the things around me, no surprise, things are always there, whatever they are.
There was this feeling of agitation, vexation, surging into me.

'Catch up! You gotta catch up, you gotta run, you'll be lost, you'll lose otherwise.'
She shouted at me, as she kept running, following the things that I can barely recognise.

Say something.

Have I said I need more time?
Have I said I need something else?
I have. But what was it? What is it? Isn't is just an empty promise embellished with the ambiguous adjectives?
No. What is this? Who are they?

I should have sharper eyes. I should have a narrow mind. I should have agile legs.
Be sharp and narrow it down. Since you cannot do everything. Since everything means nothing.
Look at you, fixated, embarrassed, bewildered, confused.

Walk. Move.

I have too many eyes, yet I have only one brain.
I see too many things, I hear too many things.

Move. Say your name and move.
This space is not yours. This time is not yours.
People are queuing, staring at their watches, shaking their legs, talking, talking and talking.
Move.

Unfettered. Untrammelled. Free.
Don't give me too many choices. Don't say everything's up to me.
Sometimes I just want to follow whatever it is. Read all the instructions and do things what I'm told to do. I can do that. Of course I can.
Celebration of possibilities.
It doesn't comfort me. Uneasy.

Have I said uncertainty is beautiful?
Sorry. I lied. I lie all the time.

Have I said I'm unfettered?
Sorry. I meant I'm lost.

Skin-deep, deep enough

2006-02-23T23:16:00.000+11:00

The language cannot penetrate your skin.
It's too visible, it's too heavy.
It's written in the same words, and it's like a kaleidoscope.
The messages and emotions are generated in accordance with the color of your eyes.
Same images are projected onto the retina, but it's your jammed brain and prescribed reaction that identifies the figure.
Logical? Scientific?
You gotta be kidding. Sometimes science is just a propagandistic tool.

What's to hide?
Come on, let's be candid. That patronizing tone is incredibly convincing.
Things that drag you down, things that bury your small body.
Radiation is not good for a healthy and sound society.
Boundaries couldn't be any clearer.
Step on the line, and you'll be electrified.

It's all there.
It's all written there.
But it cannot be read.
It's covered by my skin, which confines my soul, defines my identity.

My words are smothered, colored.
My words should be louder, bigger.
It's skin-deep, it's deep enough.

Mistaken, mistakable, mistake.

2006-02-21T23:27:00.000+11:00

I shouldn't have said that. I should have kept it to myself. Predictions about amorphous things. When you're not sure, you can't share anything. It's not a secret, it's a process of refinement, to make sure, to confirm, because when it is exposed, you become scared. Very scared.

There's no hidden intention. People talk and they always forget. You say whatever you want to say. But just don't keep saying it. Just don't repeat it. Then whatever it is, it becomes a fact, it's fixed, it's adamant. You can't replace it. You don't want it, do you.

It's like taking a fall. Very pretty at first, then it keeps being tainted, eroded. You were proud at first, I know. It might be a compromise, it might be a negotiation, but whatever you call it, it's embarrassing. You never lied, but it becomes a lie. Funny how you can be a professional liar when you don't know the truth. What's the definition of 'truth'?

Devise some plausible excuses. Don't forget to laugh it off. Don't forget to give the impression that it's not a big deal. Don't forget to imply that doesn't mean that much to you. Unless you're screwed. Unless you're a mockery. It's called 'sanitization', 'extenuation'. Just to make you feel better. Be skillful. Everything's manipulated, anyway.

I shouldn't have said that. How could I? The grapevine is out of my control. It's always bifurcated. Two answers for one question are not valid. It's either the mundane, self-abnegating but comfortable silence, or this unsecured pride or confidence which is cacophonous.

Your damn pride. This is a backstage. There's no audience. Your freaking consciousness. Nobody cares. Nobody remembers. Oh, I forgot. Everybody remembers your meticulous mistake, and that becomes your innate characteristic.

I admit it. I can never be a good player.
But I shouldn't have said that, you know. I can't shake it off.
Maybe it's me who remembers.
Maybe it's me who needs to forget.
The only problem. My brain works in a mysterious way. I'm not talking about god.

Call Nietzsche and tell him that I'm dead for now.
Oh, then you would speak nothing less, nothing more.

Familiar isolation

2006-02-18T15:20:00.000+11:00

Do you miss your friends and family?
Do you miss your school?
Do you miss the familiar footsteps, never-ending pointless refutations?
Do you miss the familiar, dreary roads that you used to take after having a long day?
Do you miss your old room, messy and packed with tattered books?
Do you miss the phone calls that you never took?
Do you miss the silly jokes and laughters?
Do you miss anything?
Do you miss everything?

Do you remember anything?
Do you remember everything?

The memories are framed. They are just pretty silent pictures.
The sign of maladaptation is accustomed. Nothing is new, nothing is old.
Things are just as they are.
It's only when the feelings like familiarity, comfort are attached, entangled.
It's only transitory but passable.

But I'm not as I am.
Keep swimming unless you want to drown into your abysmal cubbyhole.
Keep bumping into impervious friendliness.
Because you don't have to feel anything when you're in something, somewhere.
Because feelings will pester you, confuse you.

Nobody asked a question.
You're learning discrete mathematics.
An unidentified dot is to be omitted, to be dismissed.

This is your familiar process of isolation, longing for any kind of familiarity.

A room with no view

2006-02-07T20:07:00.000+11:00

I locked myself out again.
I sat on the corner of the corridor, staring at the wall, for hours.
The staff finally came and she didn't know where on earth the spare keys are.
The one who might have the key would come in 5 hours, she said.
I called Locksmith again and paid 88 dollars for the 10-second-long operation.

"You always lock yourself out", she said.
I know it's my fault that I don't like to bring keys with me for a short cigarette break.
You need a swipe card to pass through the entrance of the accommodation, you need the card for the elevator, you need keys to unlock or lock two doors to enter your small room.
It's all for security, I understand.

I remember my apartment in Korea.
I would never bring keys. Instead of the electric door, I greeted the old guard. He was always snoozing, but he was always sitting there anyway. I press the elevator button and stare at the descending numbers wearing my headphone. Then I press number 5, get out of the elevator.
I press the doorbell. Within a few seconds, the door opens, it's either my mom or brother.

I didn't need keys with me because there was always someone waiting for me.
Probably, I keep forgetting this. Now I don't have anybody.
I've been living in dormitories for about a half of my life, but the accommodation outside my country is different. Maybe it's not the supposedly convenient technology that protects residents' properties. Maybe it's the absence of people on my way home.

How many keys do we have.
Why are we so obsessed with our own properties.
I couldn't wait for another hour, I was so edgy to open and get into my room, because I felt everything important, everything crucial for any kind of activity was in my room. Without them, I couldn't do anything, I thought.
Why can't I just watch kids playing in the playground like I did when I was in Korea.
Why can't I just take a walk, not thinking about my cellphone, laptop.
Why should I be in my room, why can't I be somewhere else.
Is everything in my room mine when the things outside are not.
I don't want to be naive. Sadly, I'm not the one who trust people easily, either.
I know we need a private space, a room of our own (like Virginia Woolf said).
But I don't like to bring keys.

I lock my door when I go out, I lock my door when I come in the room.
I open the door to close it, I lock the door to unlock it.
I stared at my keys.

We lock ourselves in.
We lock ourselves out, sometimes.

A dream

2006-02-02T07:15:00.000+11:00

pic. Erlend Mork

I and my best friend are back from a trip.
She says she has to try harder, she's not good enough.
I smile and say "Relax. Just enjoy and everything will be fine".
"You just don't know because I've never told you. ", she says.
I say good-bye to her and walk down the street.
I'm smiling but I feel reluctant.

It's a murky day, I am heading to an old building that I'm supposed to take an exam.
In front of the building, hundreds of small kids are lining up. There are huge billboards that announce the winners - the first prize, second prize. Kids are clapping for someone, and I just pass them by.

I enter the building. I start to climb the stairs. It's very dark and narrow.
I reach the room packed with highschool, or middleschool students studying, preparing for the exam. Some lecturers are supervising. None of them, I can recognize.

I sit at the corner of the room, next to my friend, who died about 3 years ago.
She seems busy and nervous.
Lecturers start to distribute exam books.
I don't get one, but I don't care.
My friend and I start to solve math problems together with just one book.
It's cheating, but the supervisors don't care either.
But I can't seem to solve any of them. I just don't know the formula.
She's very good at it, she's very concerned at the same time.

They distribute another exam book for history.
I can't seem to understand any of them either, anyhow I guess them all.
I feel very confident about English, but only two simple questions are about English.
That's when I want to have my own exam book for math.
I raise my hand, "I didn't get the math exam paper".
One of the lecturers comes to me and says, "It's late for that".

Then I remember that I'm in the class for the gifted students, I won several big science, English competitions. Then I also start to wonder which grade I'm in. It really annoys me. I can't figure it out. Then I remember I graduated from the science highschool. I start to think I shouldn't be taking this exam. There's no need.

They release the exam result, and I get 'F'. I hide the result, I'm not embarrassed, I'm rather angry. My friend only missed one math question. She starts to cry because she doesn't get a perfect mark. I look at her, I feel estranged. I feel uncomfortable.
I sneak out of the room.

I try to escape, jumping out of the window.
I do manage to step on the ground safely.
Then, a couple of people call me urgently.
They are supporting my friend, who seems to be asleep.
"You have to take her with you! Everybody left her behind", they shout at me.
I just look up.
They dump her, her head hits the ground.
"What the hell is wrong with you people!", I scream at them.
But there's no blood, she seems peaceful and opens her eyes.
"I just fell asleep, when I woke up, there was nobody around me", she says, smiling at me.

I help her stand up.
We start to walk together. It's not murky anymore.
The sunrays fill the air, there's a small but pretty flowerbed next to us.

I've been wondering, frustrated to get the answer. Which grade I'm in.
Suddenly, I realize I'm not a highschool student, I'm not a student of my former university.
It is a kind of outburst, a good one.
"I go to this university and study this", I speak to my friend, looking and smiling at her.
"I know it's not what I've studied so far, I know this might seem like an abrupt diversion. It's not easy always, but I like it, I do, you know", I keep talking to her.

"Do you like animals?", then she suddenly asks me.
"You want to be a vet? That's great!", I talk to her, without a pause, delighted.
She nods her head, softly smiling.
"They say Australia is a good place to live in", she says, looking at me.

And then I woke up. What a long and weird dream.
My friend and I went to the highschool together, we were roommates, we were best friends.
A few years ago, she said she had a bad headache, then a few days later, she suddenly died. Just like that, things happen. With no reason.

What did you want to tell me? Why did I bring you in?
Anyway, it's good to see you...

mediocre epiphany

2006-01-29T22:20:00.000+11:00

pic. Anthony Schubert

Then you would question how come you've come this far.
A familiar conversation, familiar expression, familiar feeling
with unfamiliar faces, unfamiliar languages, unfamiliar places.
You are standing in the middle of this sticky mass of impervious fragments.
Cement yourself into the right place.
Be careful, you might need to break it unless you fit in.
And that's when you start to think.
Just for a while.

You would be asked to show your ticket when you've been in it for such a long time.
Everything was changing, and all you can remember is everything changes.
pronominal expressions are no more than empty vagueness.
You start to calculate. You start to arrange the numbers.
You start to look around. You start to wonder what your intention was.

And then you think, you feel like, everything's going to be alright.
Everything's going to be fine, nothing's wrong, you don't have to agonize.
And then you feel like, you're doing fine.
There is somebody who cares about you, who loves you, who believes in you.
Just for a moment.
The moment of mediocre epiphany.
And the mediocre oblivion permeates into you.
Then everything's messy, you're screwed up again.

You need to cry harder, laugh harder.
To indulge yourself into that moment of epiphany, which will visit you soon after.

Misinterpretation

2006-01-25T10:47:00.000+11:00

I told you to be peaceful. Not apathetic.

Dare to enter

2006-01-17T15:06:00.000+11:00

pic. Jim McNitt

Step on the stone made of water.
I will show you my bruise, to touch, to feel.
I will walk with grace, splashing words.

Interlace my curly hair with the plunging wind.
Fly with the big fish covered with iridescent scales.
No more rhetorical puns. I will imbibe every sound.
No more vortices. I will swim across every flow.

Dare to lose.
Dare to sing.
Dare to greet you.

A hitchhiker

2006-01-15T14:59:00.000+11:00

pic. Rosalind M Delligatti

An orphan.
Hichhike to her home that doesn't exist.
To see her mother who doesn't have a face.
Born when she was a million years old.
Born with a winter gale in summer.

Still a stranger.
The worn-out bag in her hand.
The name carved on her skin.

Surely, this is far from heaven.
But is she the farthest thing from her home?

Then a pilgrim.
The strange cars pass her by.
The time has passed her by.
She will pass the familiar seasons.
She will pass the familiar places.

A car has stopped.
She has started.

Mime

2006-01-09T20:32:00.000+11:00

pic. Frederic Pascual

So he knows about music well because he started to listen to Pink Floyd and Deep Purple when he was 10 years old. He might keep Britney Spears' CD in his drawer. He might recite the lyrics of Backstreet Boys. Who knows. But he knows about music well because he's wearing a T-shirt of Led Zeppelin.

And she is very artistic because she was inspired by the bittersweetness of Listerine and created a very postmodernistic art work out of her toothpaste. She is a hippie aficionada because she smokes a lot and drinks a lot. She is an extreme liberalist because she doesn't know anything about politics.

And he is a sexist because he called her a woman. She is just a living creature.
And she is a psychiatrist because she watches Dr. Phil a lot. She thinks she knows everything about psychology because she read a short article about Freud's oral phase. She says she remembers something happened during that phase and that ruined her life. She was supposed to be five months old.

Everything's fragmented. I randomly pick some pieces and rearrange them to create a new identity. A fraction is enough. They don' t have time to scrutinize anyway.

There was no ammunition and I flopped down.
How easy to pretend.
How easy to misunderstand.
How easy to distort.

Let's be a master of mime.

Incognito

2006-01-03T13:19:00.000+11:00

I'll go to the South Pole one day.
I'll watch the beautiful aurora with my benumbed body, dancing heart.

I'll sleep with a lost dog one day.
Where everything that I've ever wanted is owned by somebody else with their names deeply carved on.

I'll learn every single line of a longest epic poem one day.
I'll deeply embed my fleeting dreams and memories in every single word of it, to recite, to stand time.

Those questions and doubts are for themselves.
Just like an abstract painting that nobody understands.

And I am a painter.
I interfuse every word, every number, every face that I write, count and stare at.
I romp around on the puddle of diluted colours, wearing my favorite dress.

And I'm merely a dreamer.
When my ideals are imperfect, amorphous yet persistent.
So I beam at blind flowers, I write to illiterate doorsteps.

I've been sitting here, staring at the broken bridge across time.
And I'm not good at throwing things away, to send them far away.
And the words are too big, the scenes are too capricious, the people are too distant.

Then, I'll go home one day.
Where I don't have to read my name, where I don't have to speak their names.

The Raven

2005-12-24T23:19:00.000+11:00

Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore -
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
" 'Tis some visitor, " I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door -
Only this and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before:
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating.
" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
That it is and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger: hesitating then no longer,
"Sir, " said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore:
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you" - here I opened wide the door -
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there wondering fearing.
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before:
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word "Lenore!" -
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore -
'T is the wind an nothing more!"
Open here i flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just a bove my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human beeing
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast upon the sculplured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."
But the Raven sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpoor.
Nothing further then he uttered, not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more then muttered, "Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utteres is it only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his Hope the melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never - nevermore.'"
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door,
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking, "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er
But whose velvet-violet lining with lamp-light gloating o'er
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God has lent thee - by these angels he hath sent
thee Respite - respite the nephente from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nephente and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird of devil!
Whether Tempter sent, or whatever tempest tossed thee ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by Horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird of devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell his soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting -
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor,
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - Nevermore!

Leftovers.

2005-12-21T21:56:00.000+11:00

Many things have happened, in the world that I thought I didn't belong to.
Familiar names suddenly pop out of nowhere, and I'm looking for any trace that I can wallow in.
I've never said good-bye. I thought things could wait. I thought things cannot happen without me, without me as a part of them. I thought I would still be in it, I would be connected to it anyway.

I would ask my name again, only to be called by any other name.
I would speak a different language, twirling the same memories.
And this is just my uncomfortable inertia, and you're painting a different picture.
You stick to your old crayon, which has been worn down to a stub.
I thought you would change it, with a different one, not a new one, and you hold on to it.
I stare at my blank paper, which I've saved, but still I dare not to tear it off.

I wish I could say I really don't care anymore, not anymore.
I wish I could be impervious to the familiar names.
But it's just too faint to let go. It's just too old to forget.
I can read between lines, I just cannot read any self-evident word.

How many elaborate lies. How many flimsy excuses.
No questions travelled. No expressions delivered.
All in the different world.
So I'll play a god, a justified observer, a legitimate loner.

The world is in a fishbowl.
Everything that I know has been spherised.
I won't feed you, I won't take care of you. I know I don't need you.
But I'll keep you, right here.
Thanks for gnawing me away.

Education, an elusive equation.

2005-12-18T08:28:00.000+11:00

A 15-year-old boy committed suicide a few months ago in Korea. He wanted to apply for an Art Highschool, but his family couldn't afford the expansive education. When the deadline for the application was over, he felt his dream, hope for future vanished. Committing suicide was not the right choice, ascribing everything to his indigent family. Entering the art school is no guarantee of success, or being an artist. Is his act, however, merely his individual fault? Is his frame or reference of thought solely his creation? His artistic talent was not enough. It needed to be sustained by wealth.

Korean society, in particular, is an education-oriented society. Your social status is usually constructed on the basis of the academic background. People say the society is changing, attempting to eradicate the elitism and facilitate the principle "talent first", not "school first". People, however, still like to rank the schools and compare them. The power of public education is shadowed, tainted by the heat of private education, which intensifies the sense of deprivation and alienation of the middle or lower class. Money leads to better education and better education to prestigious schools, good schools to higher social or economical status. A documentary showed the statistics which illustrate students' national exam scores are directly proportional to the household incomes. Of course, we've seen this, heard this and we admit this. Of course, this cannot be applied to every case, but in many cases, it can be.

Learning is one of the most important human activities. Education should be the right for everybody. Education should not be a privilege for wealthy people.
Just like Marshall McLuhan said, education has become huge business. Education is commodified, and students are commodities themselves. Constructive competition is good. It will enhance the quality of education. It's hard to deny education is used as a tool for the success. The problem is the accessibility to the tool, education. If the circular relationship of money, education and success exists, without money, people can never get in that circle. People cannot escape from the poverty and the poverty is inherited. You cannot continue your education because you don't have enough money, and since you couldn't receive the education required, you might have less chance in the society. And education, especially higher education is becoming more and more expansive.

My parents worked hard to provide me and my brother with a good education. I cannot say that I tried my best in my studies, but I do know what learning or knowledge means to me. Some might say it is just an ideal and a romantic idea that everybody should be provided with the education that they want or need.

The reward of education cannot be equal. Of course, everybody has different interests and abilities. Some work harder than others, some are smarter than others and some are luckier than others. What should be equal is the chance to receive an education. Whether you are smart or not, wealthy or not, you need a chance to learn.

A puzzle

2005-12-13T08:45:00.000+11:00

pic. Pavel Kaplun

Just like a puzzle.
At first, transfixed with disgust, staring at the heap of messy, disordered fragments.
But once I start to put those pieces one by one, fitted together,
the picture, once merely a fatuous delusion, becomes real.

There are things. Many things.
The things that I've never wanted, I've never needed.
And some pretty things, with dormant beauty.
It's hard to let go, any of them, and it's hard to keep, all of them.
What to let go and what to keep.
I sit down and stare at the pieces.
And then I look at the capricious, unsettled frame and the picture which has started to unveil.

Keep all of them, I say, just keep them somewhere, since I need all the pieces in the end, every single piece is needed to fill the small holes and to complete the puzzle.

I have bought a puzzle, a huge one.
I unpacked it and poured the pieces into the ever-changing frame.
Put one piece at somewhere.
Then it's time to indulge in the disturbance.
Take your time and enjoy.
A puzzle of puzzles. It's will take my whole life to complete.

Down by the water

2005-12-11T07:14:00.000+11:00

pic. Sir John Everett Millais

She doesn't need more time.
She is the flow of the time.
She is the remnant of the time that you had, she had, and they could have had.

She doesn't need more space.
She is the space, vast space itself.
She can hear the echo when she calls your name, her name,
and another name they could have had, or should have had.

There are the questions.
The vague questions are flooding into her head and then oozing out.
She can never grab any,
so she dives into them, wallows in them,
so she can be another question,
so she is the question itself.

Seize the grey day

2005-12-09T06:53:00.000+11:00

pic. Al Magnus

William Butler Yeats

Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn
Come clear of the nets of wrong and right
Laugh, heart, again in the grey twilight
Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn.

Your mother Eire is always young
Dew ever shining and twilight grey
Though hope fall from you and love decay
Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue.

Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill
For there the mystical brotherhood
Of sun and moon and hollow and wood
And river and stream work our their will.

And God stand winding in His lovely horn
And time and the world are ever in flight
And love is less kind than the grey twilight
And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn.

The stories that never end

2005-12-06T22:23:00.000+11:00

"If you have never spent whole afternoons with burning ears and rumpled hair, forgetting the world around you over a book, forgetting cold and hunger - If you have never wept bitter tears because a wonderful story has come to an end and you must take your leave of the characters with whom you have shared so many adventures, whom you have loved and admired, for whom you have hoped and feared, and without whose company life seems empty and meaningless..."

- Never Ending Story

Magic. Adventures. Ordeals. Dreams.
Where the power of imagination prevails over the mundane reality, a story never ends. It's a different yet parallel world that goes on and on. And the signification of every little detail of the story changes or grows with you.

Escapism, people might say. The magical world, however, is not disconnected to or separated from the so-called real world. It does not necessarily urge you to escape from the reality. As far as we don't abandon one of them, the stories transform themselves into inspirations and references in both worlds.

Children's novels, or fairy tales are not always happy and pretty. The characters ceaselessly learn to overcome obstacles, either voluntarily or reluctantly. Sometimes they fall, they fail and they cry. And they learn and "grow up". Growing up can hurt, and that's why it feels nice.

We often forget how to grow up. We just get old.

I've read many books. I've read some pedantic books daubed with sophisticated vocabularies, I've read some truly brilliant novels and philosophies. But their stories are often lifeless. They cease growing the moment when I stop reading, when I think I've learned. The seemingly naive and unsophisticated fairy tales are the ones that I hold on to, revive my motivations and consistently tell me another story. They are sophisticated, elaborate words under an innocent disguise.

A wonderful story has come to an end.
A wonderful story is to be read over and over again.
A wonderful story never ends.

Crap or Art? - In the name of postmodernism

2005-11-30T23:23:00.000+11:00

Andy Warhol
100 Cans
Oil on canvas
72 x 52 in (182.9 x 132.1 cm)

What is art?
What is artistic and creative?

Creation of images, graphics and animations.
Expressing feelings and thoughts through the creation.
And more fundamentally, communicating through the expression.
These are some of the most essential human activities.

Can everybody be an artist?
Can everybody create art?
Yes, some might say, in the name of postmodernism.
But if postmodernism had been engendered as a challenge to elitism of modernism, saying everybody can be an artist, can we say the art advocating postmodernism is free from remnants of modernism?And if postmodernism claims that an art work does not contain a tolerant meaning or message, but various individual interpretations, can the question "what does this depict or mean?" be valid?

100 Campbell's cans may represent American values to some people, or they are told so. Andy Warhol represents the pop art movement and American culture. Because we learned it is so. Of course we need to learn values and cultures to interpret an object within our frames of thoughts and bounded imagination. Of course it can mean anything. It can imply a person's huge appetite, it can mean cultural imperialism, market monopoly, world poverty and famine or your breakfast. But as a fixed and rather justified form of art, it delivers certain messages, as we have learned. And whatever it means, that is an art work, as many people claim.
A person's fame, even if it's a notorious one, often provides a sanction of art, which not everybody is allowed to receive. If you cannot understand it, appreciate it like lots of others or some critics do, you suddenly become a layman. Anyway it's art, and if you cannot appreciate art, you're not that civilized, not that sophisticated.

But if the content of the art hugely depends on an individual's interpretation in relation to many factors, if the work doesn't mean anything to 'me', it's nothing but trash.

It is true postmodernism in art does play a crucial role in contemporary cultures. It is also true that postmodernism in art tends to have negative connotation, since the application seems truly chaotic sometimes, since the term is often misused or overused. If you don't understand the work, they say it's about postmodernism.

I'm not an aficionado of modern arts. I may not have 'specific' background to appreciate some trends of art. But sometimes, the socially constructed meaning of a picture is enforced to an individual.

Often, we don't 'understand' or 'feel' an art work. Understanding or feeling the work as an individual is not enough. We learn the art. We learn the name of the creator, we learn the title and we learn the meaning of the work.
We may learn to understand. But sometimes, I cannot help thinking that this learning limits the range of feelings that we can possibly experience.

The works of Andy Warhol are hilarious and different. He may be a great artist.
But even after I learned what his works mean, they still don't mean anything.

See you later

2005-11-26T07:37:00.000+11:00

pic. Ed Swinden

Once, there was an unexpected message from an unknown person.
She said she knew who I am. She said we had a same industrial management class, she saw me in the cafeteria. She said she saw me smoking, looking down, wearing my headphone. She said she liked my writings. She liked my distorted, circumventing words.

She sent me many messages. She was very warm and calm.
One rainy summer night, we had a drink. We kept smiling, we chatted like old friends. The conventional ice-breaking was not needed. It is a strange pleasure to discover someone who is too similar in many stupid ways and no explanation is required to justify yourself, to make you look smarter.
We felt a little bit tipsy.
We walked to our dormitory, in the pouring rain. I kept splashing the cold rain in my shoes. Her yellow green shoes looked like a little raft. We didn't talk much. We didn't have to talk.
She was a strangely comforting friend.

That was our first real conversation. And that was the last one.
I left my country without saying a word. That's my lovely specialty.
She still sends me short messages.
We could have known each other better, we could have talked more.
We'd been in the same school for 4 years.

See you later.
If you can say this, rather automatically, to your friend, to anybody that you know, then you are lucky.
When you're about to leave, that's when you bump into many nice people. When you accidentally get to know a person and you want to spend more time with him or her, that's when you need to say good bye.

The funny thing is, the relationship is faint but never vague. For me, that intangible friendship is more comforting than any intense bond, sometimes. You don't have to meet someone, talk to someone everyday. I need more space and more distance.

She said we might come across someday.
Yes, maybe. She'll just sit next to me without a word, I'll just tap on her shoulder. Then we'll have a drink. We won't talk about the things that we missed. We'll talk about silly things and then say good-bye. We won't say 'see you later'.

Run, Information, Run

2005-11-22T07:12:00.000+11:00

We live in the era of inundant information.
There are millions of pieces of information to pick up or to simply ignore.
We surf the web, watch television, movies, listen to the radio, music, see the ads on the streets, buses. We do take lots of things, we are exposed to the overflowing graphics, sounds and texts.

And that can be a disaster for media productions.
They should 'instantly' capture audiences' attention. They should make the audience anchor there, for a 'second'. The visuals and messages should hit the audience, linger in the audience. They should be different, they should stand out.
If they can't be, they are out. They are dead.

Communication should happen instantly. People hardly ponder on things, since there are too many anyway. They can always browse and grab a few. They are pushed by the tremendous mass of information, and at the same time, they are pushing the information to flow faster.
When the quantity becomes a rather subliminal concept, they start talking about quality.
And the quality is often smothered with the pressure of 'instant communication'. It's the seconds, not minutes or hours, that decides the survival or successful transfer of the information.

My mother always says 'wait and see, things take time to happen'.
I wait, then I start missing things. I feel like I'm porous or invisible. I need to clutch some to understand what is happening.
And they hardly wait.

But sometimes I wonder.
All the things that had happened. How many of them do I still remember and do they matter to me? Why was I obsessed with them?

I'm often overwhelmed by the anxiety attack and competitive information gathering in this age of instant communication.
But I think my mother can be right. Wait and see. Probably I need to wait till all the bubbles vanish. Then I would see the things that really matter to me. Then I would take time and understand them.
I'm just a person who needs more time to appreciate things.

Catcher on the cliff

2005-11-20T17:54:00.000+11:00

There was the time. I was troubled by the advent of the second adolescent angst. Everything was not right, everybody was hypocritical. I couldn't do what I wanted to do, I couldn't be what I wanted to be. My life was reluctantly entwined with the unwanted expectations, comparisons, frustrations. I was stuck. There was no way to escape. Everything was pushing me. And I was a gaudy failure.

I thought.
Blaming others is easier than blaming myself.

And, utterly by chance, I started to read the catcher in the rye.
I was trapped in. I was embarrassed.
Holden was so much like me.
With a scathing mouth, sharp but distorted eyes, I was reading my story.

Broken things are attractive because of their imperfection and difference.
Sarcasm is attractive, often because of the crafty disguise to hide its vulnerable, fragile history.

Now I see. And deep down, I always knew.
Nobody was pushing myself. It was me who was pushing myself.
I couldn't do what I wanted to do, I couldn't be what I wanted to be, because I was afraid. I was not bold enough to leave them behind, let them go. Without them, without the prestigious schools, the records, even if they caused me lots of frustrations, I thought I would be nothing.

I've been a professional liar. Every fancy phrase that I made up was nothing but a plausible excuse to justify my impatience, indecision and egoism. Maybe I still am.

I know. Things do turn out to be wrong and I do hit against unexpected obstacles, either visible or invisible and I will keep doing it, I will get the knack.
I know. People can betray each other's expectations. People can trample down on each other. But not everybody, not always. I'm not that different from them but I do know a couple of people who always accept me even if I betray their expectation.

When you look back, even if it's just a year ago, your stories begin.
And that's when you realise how much you miss everybody, everything in the stories. Especially, when the protagonist is beautifully twisted.

"Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody."

Time traveller

2005-11-17T07:38:00.000+11:00

pic. Pitman Less

When I was a kid, everything went forwards. It was the future that mattered. I looked forwards, I walked forwards. I was a forward child. Everything was in order, either chronologically or psychologically.

As I became older, the simply linear and unilateral time line had split. The time went forwards, and at the same time, it went backwards. The past started to pop out out of nowhere, the future was forgotten, and the present vanished.

I stand on a line, or a spot of an intricately tangled web of time, and I cannot be sure where I am. I walk forwards and look backwards. I talk about the past and think about the future.
I started to play with the time and the time started to play with me.

And there is another time line, without me in it, that goes on. There exist my mother, friends and everything that has been connected to me somehow. And there also exists everything that could have been connected to me. I tried to be interconnected to the line. I tried to jump in the line. I wish I could be in it.
But the time line is impervious and I am an observer.

Time is a scientific measurement. We've set a standard time, local time, GMT and UTC, based on the difference in geographical longitude. We have atomic clocks to define the second, internationally and officially.

But we all live in different time zones.
The length of each minute, hour, day and month is different.
The actual time that we reside in is different and does not refer to your watches or clocks. The measurement, realisation of time is fairly subjective to me.

Time is a tricky thing.
Somebody asked me what time it was and I was wallowing in the different time, the time that I was quarrelling with my mother because of the flight ticket, the time that I was drinking with my best friend, who died on a beautiful spring day.

I am a time traveller.

Headlights

2005-11-12T09:49:00.000+11:00

Yes, I'm far from home.
The voices over the phone are vividly faint and the faces in the pictures look uncomfortably familar.

Is that what I said?
Did it sound plausible, convincing?
You crossed your fingers,
and I guess I crossed the lines, I crossed the oceans.
I kept looking at the watch,
and you were watching me, watching the lights sliding.

And I couldn't hear anything.
The music was composing the world I might face later.
But I couldn't say 'see you later'.
I don't plan things and I needed to go.

Everybody was going home.
They were headed for their home, and I was strong-headed.
The silly joke never lasts but I remember your smile.
Yes, I'm far from my home and I need to keep moving.
And I never look at the signs, so don't ask me where I am.

Yes, I'm far from my home and I guess you're still there.

Claustro-phile

2005-11-07T23:51:00.000+11:00

Nothing exists when people don't see it.
Nothing exists when people don't know it.
Nothing exists if there's no word to describe it, if the eyes refuse to take a look at it.
Things should be substantive, concrete and tangible.
It's the recognition that gives birth to the 'realistic' existence, not vice versa.

I live in my small dark cubbyhole.
It's a heated molecule, packed with hyperactive imaginations, logical paradoxes and bittersweet ironies. I enjoy those tight interactions.

But they only exist in my head.
They are just a bunch of fancy-looking concepts.
They are phantoms, that nobody can witness.
Even if they sense that something is there, they deny the existence.
If I say 'I see them', they would laugh at me.
They are phantoms.

"Walk out, face the world, the real world".
I've been living in a fragile ivory tower for a long time.
Sometimes, I wonder if I am real.
I can see the world, clearly, vividly, but the world cannot see me.

Qualified to be miserable

2005-11-06T00:08:00.000+11:00

It's funny how we usually exaggerate our miseries.
"My life is harder than others, I've been through a lot of harsh things more than anybody."
That destructive romanticism is often used for miserable self-justification.
"Since my life is harder, since you seem to have a better life, you should understand me, even if sometimes I behave badly, because it's not my fault."

Nobody is qualified to judge people's lives. There are myriads of stories untold, censored either by yourself or others. I know what it seems might be what it is, and it might not be.
But we are self-oriented, if not selfish.
You cry, ask for consolation from others, because things are hard and no luck is with you.
But it is a crime to demand consolation, even if it's a implicit gesture, from some people, sometimes. They need to listen to you, hug you and say 'it's ok', not because they are not crying or they are happy, but because you're crying louder.

But it's easier to console others than to comfort yourself.
All you need to say is 'you'll be fine, don't worry'.
You don't have to understand the deeper, underlying frustrations.
Just pat him on the shoulder, or sit beside her.
It's extremely difficult to find solace in yourself, by yourself.
You just can't think positively about yourself, and the doubts always remain.
But even if you're wrong, you've done something wrong, and even if you know it too well, you don't want poignant remarks, any criticism.
'You'll be fine, don't worry'. Corny and trite, yes, and this is what you want to hear, I want to hear.

My skin filters off my screaming heart.
I can hardly hear my heart, when I'm surrounded by numerous other crying hearts.
The process of consolation is usually made under a tacit agreement of delicate or destructive deceptions.

Red dress

2005-11-04T18:52:00.000+11:00

pic. Kevin Temple

You always say life is beautiful.
I know you lied, and you know you lied.
You always say life is fair, god is fair to everyone.
I know you lied, and you don't even believe in god.

But I like your lies. That's why I lie.

There are too many words left unsaid, too many promises forgotten. Everything suddenly becomes nothing, and we suffer from nothing. All the things that we say, they are nothing but subtly refined lies. The world that we describe, the people that we know, they don't exist. You and I, we don't exist and that's who we are.

But I hear your words unsaid, I feel your feelings hidden.

I remember my small red dress that you loved.
And you said I was beautiful.
Everything is covered with red.
But you are too sad to be red, I am too red to be sad.

Morning ritual

2005-11-02T07:38:00.000+11:00

You should wake up early in the morning.
You should turn on your laptop.
You should take a long shower, and then make some strong black coffee.
Then you should light a cigarette, leaning agianst the wall, watching cars passing by.
And you should sit at the desk.
You should listen to the music. Sigur Ros, Alana Davis, Ani Difranco or Radiohead.

You can start writing something, surfing the Internet or doing nothing, sipping your coffee.

Your stomach is entirely empty and your brain is entirely activated.

And you're alone.

That's how your day begins.
That's how your day should begin.

How to take a fall

2005-10-31T01:51:00.000+11:00

The first fall is always hard.
You've been climbing upwards, you've been heading towards, since that's what we're supposed to do, since falling is disgraceful, falling is a failure.

But after you've fallen, something good can happen.
When thousands of beautiful trees, no matter how beautiful they are, pass you by quickly, without any halt, they merely become the meagre green wallpaper.
When the marvellous sunset, no matter how admirable it is, never vanishes into the darkness, you start to yawn.

So it's ok to fall down.
I would just stay still.
Then I would just wait.
Till all the troubling, cacophonous words and numbers gracefully descend to the ground, just like fine feathers.
And then, after that, everything starts to flutter and whisper even with my slightest movements. Just like the untroubled surface of a lake can deliver a ripple, unharmed, farther.
Falling can be a nice distraction. My steps don't have to be one-way.

So it's ok to fall down.
It's lucky that I can fall, it's comforting to know that I still can take a fall.
Sometimes, you don't even have a space to fall down.

Possibly impossible or impossibly possible

2005-10-27T08:06:00.000+10:00

It's the moment that you cannot say you could have done better.
It's the moment that somehow you think that you know that you couldn't do better.
Then it's not the regret that bothers you.
It's the confrontation with what you have become, the boundary that confines your ability, that frustrates you.

We reluctantly reject the possiblity, yet cannot accept impossiblity.
And that is a trick to leave a small space of consolation.
So, sometimes we give up in the middle or try to a certain but reasonable extent to subconsciously assure ourselves that we might have a potential ability which is yet to be unfolded.
We are afraid to push ourselves really hard, yet secretly desire to overcome the fuzzy boundary of our capability.

But the possibility, when it only wriggles in our heads, tends to be merely a sweet illusion or a false hope. Everything is possible in our imagination, but that's not the way it really is or what you are in so-called reality. We can never know what is really possible, because we fear it might be impossible when we take it out of our head. The concept of possibility, then, becomes a myth.

Some quantum physicists say everything is possible and our reality is just a routinised pattern of our own selections, interpretations. And that's a comfort that every wrongness that we see, every dissatisfaction that we feel is our choice. But what happens if we all need to reside in one reality when everybody wants a different version of reality?

The consideration of possibility fuels the pursuit of happiness.
The problem is the meaning of happiness always changes, which makes it elusive and slippery.

Godspeed You! Black Emperor

2005-10-26T05:31:00.000+10:00

The problem of music is there are too many songs and artists on earth.
The process of searching for the music that you like and want is harder than we think.
It's a matter of taste.
I don't like Pussycat dolls or Hilary Duff.
I don't like many of the angry modern rock tracks which always swear because people don't love them.
And that's not my fault. That's just my taste.

I enjoy music-hunting. And I enjoy listening to the music that demands a lot of me.
Godspeed you! black emperor plays that kind of music.
They are extensive, socially critical and very unkind in terms of the length of the tracks.
That's why I like them.
And again, that's my taste.

You can read about Godspeed you! black emperor and download a couple of tracks here.
(Godspeed you! black emperor Internet radio station is also available).
Again, if you want to.

Problem of saying 'Thank you'

2005-10-23T21:12:00.000+10:00

I grew up in a family where people hardly say 'thank you'.
It doesn't mean that they never appreciate each other (even if it seems that my family is an aggregation of cynics) but saying 'thank you' was a tacitly unwelcome gesture.
Most of the feelings need to be expressed in rather implicit ways.
Yes, I lived in a high context culture.
This is neither very graceful nor lovely trait, but I didn't sense any problem with it.
Because I was surrouned and protected by the people like me.

The life in Sydney, however, has eliminated the thin protection line.
My reluctance to say 'thank you' was often interpreted as rudeness and indifference.
Feeling thankful and saying 'thank you' were equivalent in meaning to me.
I didn't bother to express.
In a different world, 'thank you' should be spoken.
Whenever you get on a bus, whenever you buy something, whenever a person holds a door for you.
In those small moment, people say 'thank you', sometimes with smile, sometimes rather automatically.

I'm learning to overcome the problem of saying 'thank you'.
Because I started to learn the subtle power of the expression.
The small things, the small momets.
I'm learning to say 'thank you'.
Sometimes feeling is enough.
And expressing the feeling can be better.

Selfishness is virtue

2005-10-22T01:36:00.000+10:00

I and 3 other group members had the first meeting with our client, Mandy Miles, the founder of 'make a difference' charity organisation. The venue was a flat owned by her mother in Kirribilli. We were very lucky since Mandy and other volunteers hardly have a face-to-face meeting and we contacted them at an opportune moment. The meeting was enjoyable. It seemed that the proposal for our media projects can satisfy, though partially, her needs, such as the promotion of the newly launched website, Gidday.com and the fund-raising for another charity organisation which will be closed unless the fund doesn't aggregate $100,000 (Yes, it's huge. Mandy was thinking about employing a media vehicle such as Current Affair.)

I think I'll be very troubled by many limitations that we may face from now on. I'm not a professional, yet the images, words and ideas, hovering over my head, always blame me for my incapability. Be ready for another panic attack.

Helping others makes me feel strong. Being able to help others makes me feel stronger.
I am not a saint. I don't help people for nothing.
The reward is the feeling of being needed, being helpful. And that makes me happy, even if it's temporary. Everybody wants to be happy, and being happy is one of the strongest, most intrinsic desires of any human being.

Selfishness is virtue, just like Ayn Rand explains in her book the virtue of selfishness.
Self-interest, properly interpreted or understood, doesn't have to be immoral or unethical.
My self-interest endows me with the penchant for charity and non-profit organisations.
And the reward is in me, from me.

The station

2005-10-20T01:15:00.000+10:00

by Robert J. Hastings

Tucked away in our subconscious minds is an idyllic vision. We see ourselves on a long, long trip that almost spans the continent. We're traveling by passenger train, and out the windows we drink in the passing scene of cars on nearby highways, of children waving at a crossing, of cattle grazing on a distant hillside, of smoke pouring from a power plant, of row upon row of corn and wheat, of flatlands and valleys, of mountains and rolling hills, of biting winter and blazing summer and cavorting spring and docile fall.

But uppermost in our minds is the final destination. On a certain day at a certain hour we will pull into the station. There will be bands playing, and flags waving. And once we get there so many wonderful dreams will come true. So many wishes will be fulfilled and so many pieces of our lives finally will be neatly fitted together like a completed jigsaw puzzle. How restlessly we pace the aisles, damning the minutes for loitering ... waiting, waiting, waiting, for the station.

However, sooner or later we must realize there is no one station, no one place to arrive at once and for all. The true joy of life is the trip. The station is only a dream. It constantly outdistances us."When we reach the station, that will be it !" we cry. Translated it means, "When I'm 18, that will be it ! When I buy a new 450 SL Mercedes Benz, that will be it ! When I put the last kid through college, that will be it ! When I have paid off the mortgage, that will be it ! When I win a promotion, that will be it ! When I reach the age of retirement, that will be it ! I shall live happily ever after !" Unfortunately, once we get it, then it disappears. The station somehow hides itself at the end of an endless track.

"Relish the moment" is a good motto, especially when coupled with Psalm 118:24: "This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it." It isn't the burdens of today that drive men mad. Rather, it is regret over yesterday or fear of tomorrow. Regret and fear are twin thieves who would rob us of today.

So, stop pacing the aisles and counting the miles. Instead, climb more mountains, eat more ice cream, go barefoot oftener, swim more rivers, watch more sunsets, laugh more and cry less. Life must be lived as we go along. The station will come soon enough.

---------------------------------------------------

This is one of the most beautiful writings that I've ever read.
Sometimes I think. I might have been a reluctant free-rider.

Confession of a spolit mind : kidult dilemma

2005-10-19T08:45:00.000+10:00

I went to the Supanova pop culture expo(October 14-16).
I accidentally got the exhibition information merely several hours before the 'preview night'(October 14) and I willingly paid 40 dollars for the weekend pass, thanks to my unrequited love for Jack Skellington (and Tim Burton's tragic toys), Yoda, Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings, etc.

The expo featured several seminars with media figures such as Richard Taylor and John Rhys-Davies and screened Japanese animations and computer games. But those events were secondary. People were busy purchasing collectibles, comics. The age didn't mean anything. A middle-aged man could proudly play with a lightsaber and a reasonably old-looking lady could passionately gather the Harry Potter collectibles. Supanova was the heaven or haven for kidults.

A kidult game website describes that a kidult (Kid + Adult) doesn't care whether his favourite game is clever or not, and he is not 'ashamed' of his 'passion', doesn't have to 'justify' with anybody; "not even with himself". It also explains that kidults are adults who still 'take care of' their kid side - their need to 'have fun', 'publicly' and with 'no fear'.

But here's one important thing. The term 'kidult' was not created by a popular culture analyst or socio-psychologist. It was coined by the 'advertisers'. The sweet catch-phrases such as 'I am not ashamed of my passion for toys and comics', 'we all want to have fun, forget about the tight stifling social norms' tend to conjure up the kid inside you and that kid with a 'bank account' would not let you delay your gratification. The innocent and fun-loving mind, then, can be easily spoilt by the material obsession. And certainly, this will make the advertisers happy.

The word 'kid' or 'adult' might be just a label to impose certain social norms and standards or to categorise a person conveniently. I wouldn't deny that I've tried, or forced myself to comply with the social expectations. When you get older, you have to be a different person, discarding the things which are not 'appropriate' for your age. In other words, they say you have to 'move on'.

I moved on. But the changes are gradual, not discrete from one another.
So I keep the things that I like. My tainted teddy bear and my love for sorcery and monsters are still with me. In that sense, I want to consider myself a kidult. We don't have to buy the expensive figures to prove that we are kidults. But sometimes I do succumb to the smart commercial strategies. The kid inside of me, stirred up by the commercial products, asks for more money. I just don't like the logic that the more passion you have, the more you are able to pay because it's more important than money.

Sometimes I ask. Why should I 'own' things? Why should I 'buy' things?
I live in the world where the passion and love need to be substantiated.

-------------------------------------------------

Are you a kidult?
Well, don't worry about the result. I am a kidult myself, according to their definition and criteria.

Lonely planet, lonely blogger.

2005-10-11T19:40:00.000+10:00

The concept of online diary contains the dissident, or seemingly conflicting two spheres ; private and public spheres.
A blog, in most cases, is personal especially in terms of the ownership and management.
It belongs to you.
Likewise, the content, whether it's about what you ate today or your political, philosophical insight, is also from you.
You have your own blog, your own space to do whatever you want to do with it.

But when you write something, anything personal or political, you know that somebody might read it. Even for the description of the most personal feelings, you know that somebody, not yourself, can read it. But are you troubled by it? What about me? I would say I really don't care, or more honestly, I might need somebody, whether my friend or a stranger, to read my writing, to talk about it. We need an audience.

It's not just to show something.
It's to find a connection not to feel totally isolated or hidden.
But that's not easy.
We all know there are millions, billions of people out there, there are numerous blogs and online groups. And we also know that it is hard to actually reach one person.

The world is becoming plethorically lonely.
Just like my head.