- Wilde said.
I can only sing :
I stand accused just like you
For being born without a silver spoon
Stood at the top of a hill
Over my town I was found
I've been on the shelf too long
Sitting at home in my bed too long
Got my things and now I'm gone
How's the world gonna take me?
Finding myself used to be hard
But now I see the light
If love is a drug
Then I don't need it
I've been on the shelf too long
Sitting at home in my bed too long
Now it's time to hear my song
How are you gonna take it?
I've been on the shelf too long
Think the words without the song
Never had a way to go
Tell me now I'm taking it
I've been on the shelf too long
I've been on the shelf too long
I've been on the shelf too long
We've got a lot of living to do
There's a door in my mind that's open wide
Come inside come inside
Jesus never saved me
He'll never save you too, and you know!
I've got a little sticker on the back of my boot
This is music
How true.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Liverpool
I should have written it months ago but I was tired and blank at that time. I'm still tired and blank but I feel like writing something about it now.
Liverpool - Lisandro Alonso
It's a simple story (if it can be called a story). A taciturn mariner set his journey back home for his ailing mother. There were hardly any dialogues, some people were playing games, but not for the taciturn man, he was standoffish, he's just present, and observed (or did he?) Just like the audience, we're just present, and observed (or did we?) but we were never invited by the director to connect with the film. The journey was long and hard, cruel blizzards all the way. There was no welcome at home (if that is a place called home). His mother did not recognise him. His daughter was not enthusiastic of his return. His father only wanted him to leave quickly. God knows what's happened there before. The world has already forgotten the taciturn man. He did not feel sad about it or at least his face did not register any sadness or disappointment. He left but the film continued. We saw what sort of lives that he left behind. It was the tip of Argentina, a place unknown to the world or maybe even to Argentina. The place was so remote that people have to live with limited resources and animal instinct. The world has not only forgotten the taciturn man, but also his family. Or maybe it's the world forgotten by the audience as we tend to dismiss the thing non-existing if we do not aware of it.
This is a film of microscopic examination of everyday's trivialities, detailed shoot of dressing, packing, eating and living. Banal and ordinary. No sentiment involved, if we only see thing as it seems. He tried to put the blanket on his mother, played around those little thingies in the house, stole a picture of his family, his hands were actually kept caressing the past and memory, though emotion also constantly kept restrained. Or he has been silent for a long time that he already lost the mean of communication. He gave a keychain to his daughter, bearing the name of a port somewhere. It might mean nothing to her, as it was not something valuable, and she seemed not interested to know what the word was about. But that might be the only thing that her father left her. A souvenir in the journey, record of a disconnected man wandering in the world, somewhere sometime, he may bear a thought of someone.
I have received several souvenirs of journey from others, some I like very much, some I just said thank you and put them somewhere now cannot be found, just like I also have given several to others, some may be being cherished, some may be regarded as trash as well. The only souvenir i got from my father is a bag from Guangzhou, cheap and ordinary. I never get along well with him, we don't talk to each other much. It is well known in family that I’m his least favourite child though I was also said to be the one who bore his character, a flawed character. He spends his humble life without much enjoyment and travelling. and I like the bag.
It's a simple story (if it can be called a story). A taciturn mariner set his journey back home for his ailing mother. There were hardly any dialogues, some people were playing games, but not for the taciturn man, he was standoffish, he's just present, and observed (or did he?) Just like the audience, we're just present, and observed (or did we?) but we were never invited by the director to connect with the film. The journey was long and hard, cruel blizzards all the way. There was no welcome at home (if that is a place called home). His mother did not recognise him. His daughter was not enthusiastic of his return. His father only wanted him to leave quickly. God knows what's happened there before. The world has already forgotten the taciturn man. He did not feel sad about it or at least his face did not register any sadness or disappointment. He left but the film continued. We saw what sort of lives that he left behind. It was the tip of Argentina, a place unknown to the world or maybe even to Argentina. The place was so remote that people have to live with limited resources and animal instinct. The world has not only forgotten the taciturn man, but also his family. Or maybe it's the world forgotten by the audience as we tend to dismiss the thing non-existing if we do not aware of it.
This is a film of microscopic examination of everyday's trivialities, detailed shoot of dressing, packing, eating and living. Banal and ordinary. No sentiment involved, if we only see thing as it seems. He tried to put the blanket on his mother, played around those little thingies in the house, stole a picture of his family, his hands were actually kept caressing the past and memory, though emotion also constantly kept restrained. Or he has been silent for a long time that he already lost the mean of communication. He gave a keychain to his daughter, bearing the name of a port somewhere. It might mean nothing to her, as it was not something valuable, and she seemed not interested to know what the word was about. But that might be the only thing that her father left her. A souvenir in the journey, record of a disconnected man wandering in the world, somewhere sometime, he may bear a thought of someone.
I have received several souvenirs of journey from others, some I like very much, some I just said thank you and put them somewhere now cannot be found, just like I also have given several to others, some may be being cherished, some may be regarded as trash as well. The only souvenir i got from my father is a bag from Guangzhou, cheap and ordinary. I never get along well with him, we don't talk to each other much. It is well known in family that I’m his least favourite child though I was also said to be the one who bore his character, a flawed character. He spends his humble life without much enjoyment and travelling. and I like the bag.
Saturday, June 06, 2009
Crucifixion is the easy life
 |  |
My first impression of the sleeve cover was, "How she reminds me of Richey Edwards!" Confused and apprehended, bloodshed and morbid. Richey was of course never confused. He was strong-willed (stronger than Mensa, Miller and Mailer) and a firm believer (of nothing).
To say richey is the gist or the soul of the band is a bit unfair to the other members and also a mystification or even deification of the very person. I still love Manics after the AWOL of Richey Edwards and consider Lifeblood as one of their best albums. However, with the magic touch of Richey (so actually it's me who mystify him), Manic Street Preachers lives up to its name again, preaching the unfinished business of the holy bible, fervently, with vehemence and sympathy, sometimes with rare tenderness. Still captivated by failed heroes/villains (Marlon J.D.), sympathetic with victims (She Bathed Herself In A Bath Of Bleach), skeptical of banality (Me and Stephen Hawking, Facing Page: Top Left) and hatred to the reign and the dominant, whitewash and lies (Journal for Plague Lovers, Virginia State Epileptic Colony), it is the good old manics we know from the idealistic angry young man in Generation Terrorists and Gold Against The Soul to the misanthropist in The Holy Bible. In Journal For Plague Lovers, anger and pain is further internalized, but silence is not sacrifice. The misanthropist becomes weary and withdrawn, seeking for an untethered place for a tired soul (This Joke Sport Severed, William's Last Words). These are the rare tender moments for the manics, though these also are the heart-breaking moments for those who love the person or the band. I never have problem with the voice of Nicky Wire (and cannot understand why people feel so abhorrence). I even think it's better to have Nicky to sing William's Last Words, laid-back and playful, he mollifies the otherwise too sentimental song.
My favourites are All Is Vanity and Doors Closing Slowly. Manics becomes the manic supporter of the authoritarian in AIV, people are simply lacking intelligence to make the right choice or, it makes no difference if we have choices or not, they are all lies after all, that's very cynical and very err ... richey.
Besides your cynicism, what else have you got? Emptiness and nothingness growing since teenage years has never died away, sense of uselessness only grows stronger. Doors closing slowly, so are you trapped within or without? Maybe it's true that crucifixion is easier than the stale existence and decaying. "In the end we had pieces of the puzzle but no matter how we put them together gaps remained. Oddly-shaped emptiness mapped by what surrounded them like countries we couldn't name." The world is noisy (listen to the voice of the accomplishment). What's your yearning? What's your loathing? Distant guitar with military / funeral drumbeats, clock-ticking, humdrum and routine, but your days are numbered, and you are mute.
Monday, June 01, 2009
Decades
Whenever i listened to this song, i would think about that incident. That was a sad day, but they were the most beautiful people i have ever seen.
Here are the young men, a weight on their shoulders
Here are the young men, well where have they been?
We knocked on doors of Hell's darker chambers
Pushed to the limits, we dragged ourselves in
Watched from the wings as the scenes were replaying
We saw ourselves now as we never had seen
Portrayal of the traumas and degeneration
The sorrows we suffered and never were free
Where have they been?
Where have they been?
Where have they been?
Where have they been?
Weary inside, now our heart's lost forever
Can't replace the fear or the thrill of the chase
These rituals showed up the door for our wanderings
Opened and shut, then slammed in our face
Where have they been?
Where have they been?
Where have they been?
Where have they been?
Here are the young men, a weight on their shoulders
Here are the young men, well where have they been?
We knocked on doors of Hell's darker chambers
Pushed to the limits, we dragged ourselves in
Watched from the wings as the scenes were replaying
We saw ourselves now as we never had seen
Portrayal of the traumas and degeneration
The sorrows we suffered and never were free
Where have they been?
Where have they been?
Where have they been?
Where have they been?
Weary inside, now our heart's lost forever
Can't replace the fear or the thrill of the chase
These rituals showed up the door for our wanderings
Opened and shut, then slammed in our face
Where have they been?
Where have they been?
Where have they been?
Where have they been?
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Journal for plague person
Constant no-update, it means this garden will soon be (or is already) forgotten by my rare and if-they-have-ever-existed (my dear imaginary) readers, but then at least I may say something frank or really treat it as a diary. That's the schizophrenia of bloggers. So do i want other to read, or not? The button on the screen says, "Publish Post", so I must want others to read (?) A mindset of a mental exhibitionist. A few days ago one of my friends asked about my absence from this blog. She was sort of good friend of mine but I was still scared by her attention. There're some people you don't expect them to read, such as your family, your colleagues or those you know they never understand what you are talking about (but they are still your friends, or even considered as good friends, how queer...). Sometimes you prefer to confess to a stranger to a person you really know. Maybe I don't need to worry cos' most of the time I just talked nonsense here and most of my friends would look blank when it's me who asked if they had read anything here. I always think blogging is something like a mental masturbation, something you have to release or, it just serves to satisfy the blogger himself / herself, because actually the one and only feverish reader of a blog is the blogger himself/herself. To show off the place you have been, the food you have eaten, the people you're with, the feeling you have, to establish the alter ego, be it the usual "princess/prince syndrome", or those "with the same guilt" cultural melancholic narcissus. No, no. Don't be disturbed by my words. I'm cynical. Please still enjoy your own blogging.
Because of my friend's query, I decide to delete hundreds of words, just my usual whining, to avoid the fragility of openness.
still need to whine. Bad luck. what can i say. no escape. don't escape. like the murphy's law. or what carl jung said. why my journal for plague lovers doesn't have the hidden track? limited edition means with limited number of tracks? so i have to spend extra HK$99 to buy the normal version. the poorer you are, the more ghosts you see.
Because of my friend's query, I decide to delete hundreds of words, just my usual whining, to avoid the fragility of openness.
still need to whine. Bad luck. what can i say. no escape. don't escape. like the murphy's law. or what carl jung said. why my journal for plague lovers doesn't have the hidden track? limited edition means with limited number of tracks? so i have to spend extra HK$99 to buy the normal version. the poorer you are, the more ghosts you see.
Monday, May 04, 2009
what is the date of today
Hum hum… makes no sense
Mermaids drown
Birds fall
We choke
But still breathe
He preaches in the street (not manic at all)
Rest assure we are all listening (though we look in awe)
Fly dies in the office
no, it's tinkerbell
Mermaids drown
Birds fall
We choke
But still breathe
He preaches in the street (not manic at all)
Rest assure we are all listening (though we look in awe)
Fly dies in the office
no, it's tinkerbell
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
no internet in office, may i squeeze some time
to make an entry here. I say it's a squeeze cos' when i am at home online, i just spend the time on pet society, it's so useless and boring! (but i can't stop the routine of feeding my pet). Sometimes i miss my blog terribly and want to put down something (without knowing what to put down).
Yes, I was looking for a job and then I found a job, and heaven knows … strangely I still survive, the simple trick is just to forsake my worthless dignity and liberty. The main theme of this blog is always my whining about jobs and I have more reasons to whine for the present one, but at this sour time I feel like my right of whining is simply not allowed, when the press keep updating the current unemployment rate, at least I got paid now. Maybe all I can do is to save a bit more (who knows I will still be employed tomorrow). I don't want to sound like too humble and lowly, but that's it.
Not everyone is as humble as me. I recently have a dinner with a few friends in college and they spent the whole evening discussing moving to a bigger flat or buying a bigger car (while I never dream of buying a small flat or car), alternated with if they should take up the hsbc's rights issue. I could not take part in any conversation. They must have attained to the level of "successful" if we can categorize the phase of life like an electronic game. I never have the status anxiety as suggested by de botton. Material gain is also not my (main) concern. I just think someday I may lose all my friends if I keep being the same person while all my friends keep "progressing".
It's like I was kept in a time capsule, with the same thoughts, same attitude and same interests (but sadly not the same look). It explains a lot why I was captivated by the Pains Of Being Pure At Heart. Cynical me first dismissed them by their name, "what, so pretentious!" I was wrong, of course. Sweet jaunty guitar immediately brought me back to the good old twee-pop days, the days of the early mbv, stone roses and the field mice, sixteen clumsy and shy. Years pass, it's a bit embarrassing to still hold on the teenage dream, by euphemism I may call myself evergreen and young at heart. So, turn up the volume, i want to be bombed by the sweet guitar noise.
Yes, I was looking for a job and then I found a job, and heaven knows … strangely I still survive, the simple trick is just to forsake my worthless dignity and liberty. The main theme of this blog is always my whining about jobs and I have more reasons to whine for the present one, but at this sour time I feel like my right of whining is simply not allowed, when the press keep updating the current unemployment rate, at least I got paid now. Maybe all I can do is to save a bit more (who knows I will still be employed tomorrow). I don't want to sound like too humble and lowly, but that's it.
Not everyone is as humble as me. I recently have a dinner with a few friends in college and they spent the whole evening discussing moving to a bigger flat or buying a bigger car (while I never dream of buying a small flat or car), alternated with if they should take up the hsbc's rights issue. I could not take part in any conversation. They must have attained to the level of "successful" if we can categorize the phase of life like an electronic game. I never have the status anxiety as suggested by de botton. Material gain is also not my (main) concern. I just think someday I may lose all my friends if I keep being the same person while all my friends keep "progressing".
It's like I was kept in a time capsule, with the same thoughts, same attitude and same interests (but sadly not the same look). It explains a lot why I was captivated by the Pains Of Being Pure At Heart. Cynical me first dismissed them by their name, "what, so pretentious!" I was wrong, of course. Sweet jaunty guitar immediately brought me back to the good old twee-pop days, the days of the early mbv, stone roses and the field mice, sixteen clumsy and shy. Years pass, it's a bit embarrassing to still hold on the teenage dream, by euphemism I may call myself evergreen and young at heart. So, turn up the volume, i want to be bombed by the sweet guitar noise.
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