being towards death

26th October 2009, the formal death of my own personal website. Its creation was a pure impulse after seeing the gigs of The Libertines in 2003 for the first time in my life. it's a tsunami, i mean, head over heels, in-your-face, no escape. Strange band, strange trip, strange people, but no danger. Felt like something changed, or part of my soul just left in london for good. With a strong urge to record the feeling (cos' i'm in love with the feeling), i learnt the simple html and made a simple website, to put down my own soliloquy (i.e. fangirl's rambling). I never have the heart to carry on anything constantly so the site was soon deserted, but it marks the history.


The front page:



the innocence and the perverse the demon and the angel the blessed the damned the cripple and the freak:



"drifting about in ice shambles, but all the warm people...":



I intended to write something about my favourite verse regularly, as sort of daily sport, but i just couldn't keep the promise:



Or maybe some random thoughts, comments, complaints, whatever... my beloved morrissey, take care! My review of his You Are The Quarry, of course (as usual) a page of praise:



Actually, Yahoo! has killed my web much earlier than the official deadline. With some unknown reason i couldn't view my uploaded photos since a long time ago, i love those pages but they were murdered without cause and notice:





As the owner of the site only has this mortal coil, the site itself of course will also be perished someday. It's just an illusion that we think the things online will stay 'til the end of time.

With years go by i feel my rationality gradually returns, or sadly i was submitted to reality once again. Has my love for the very band died a little? I don't know. I hope not. I don't want to see them reunion. I want to see them reunion.

mature words

what the heck is that? i just stumbled into a blog which contains the following mysterious link:

http://usokomaker.com/yoji/

it seems fun, though i don't know the exact japanese meaning.

kitty will be:

haha, i definitely do not go to bed early (but i won't object to the latter part, haha, shameless!)

my chinese name "__和" will be:

what? but it confirms that i really am a "pretty"? haha let's vomit!!!!!

my chinese name "鄧__" in english:

so it means i have this ability or not?

my usual name "kitty tang":

that explains why i always live in poverty.

and my online name "kittyshambles":

oh i love it most!!! yes, i do come from Planet Sensitivity.

Always, always, always the sea

British Sea Power @ Grappa's Cellar, Hong Kong 10.10.2009


I must say, the gig was unexpectedly good! Not really a fan of BSP, though their anthemic guitar is always my cup of tea and, after the gig, I think I may become a real fan, at least I really want to see their gig again.

The show was opened by The Yours. That was the first time I watched their show, though I longed to see them since 2006. I always had some sort of urgent matters that I couldn't attend their shows. Destiny delays our encounter. Anyway, they were as cool as I thought, in terms of the music and the look, but I was disturbed once again and couldn't see their whole set, fate!



The Yours

Then it was British Sea Power. Dress code of the Wilkinson bros was quite "unique", no shoes on, Hamilton with an overtly camp sleeveless top and Yan with a suffocated scarf in a room of insufficient air con. It all became insignificant when the music started. Powerful and anthemic, these are the right words to describe the music but not quite the exact words for the atmosphere. Err... yes, RAPTURE! Everyone was rapturous, for those on stage and those under... Noble not only played on the stage or up on the amplifier, he even jumped down the stage and played with the crowd. Mosh pit was dangerous, but we all were hypnotized, pushed your body, shook your head, continuous stage-diving, it's a mysterious ritual. Only when the barrier between the performers and the audience disappears, music becomes real alive and that's what live performance is about.


Yan tried the breakdance


What a Noble man


Yes, i always like this sort of scene


"throw him off!"


pornography


all bands come from rough trade must make this pose

Every poet is a fool

err, what can i say? Best wishes for someone, whether that AWOL was because of health problem or not.

I'm thinking about history

This is where i lived when i was a child. This is where when i dreamt about going home, i would go back there, and get lost. It is full of trees, songs of birds, sound of waterfall. Blue skies and daisy, daydreaming in classroom, hi-fi's volume competition, this is what my childhood like, of course also with nervousness and anxiety. My childhood's home will be demolished soon at the end of this year, leave in silence.






cherry house, so uk estate, my childhood's home

hay-on-wye

That is my ideal place for retirement. If I have loads of money, I really like to buy a house in Hay. It's a small town with no train connection, but its remoteness also sets a good vibe for this town of books, isolated, far from the madding crowd, with only second-hand, mouldy and dusty books. Old books always give a strange kind of charm, travelled far in terms of time and space, they always have their own story to be told, besides the stories written within. I like to think about the identity of the original owner, where the book came from, the number of different owner in-between... did it come from a personal library of a book collector, or was it just part of the domestic decoration of a pretentious snob? It is like a mysterious thread connecting different people, or even different centuries. Like those lending records attached to the books of public libraries, I always feel intrigued by the previous readers. I've bought a small book of poetry of lord bryon. All pages were yellowed and the cover was creepily stained by human touch. This book must have been loved by its previous owner(s). I can almost feel the fanatical savour of this person to the book. Another book I've bought, charles lamb's essays of elia, it looks brand new though it was published in the early 20th Century. It must be placed on the shelf for a long time as "decoration" only. I hope I will give the books the respect they deserve by reading them sometimes, though I am afraid (and pretty sure) that the books in my house generally are also becoming part of the fixtures and fittings only, I read too slow. Sorry, books.

solitude standing

I love those antique streetlamps in UK, elegance, solitude. No matter it's a peaceful night or a market full of hustle and bustle, they never fail to romanticise. They made me think of the lamplighter in the little prince. "A beautiful occupation", according to what the prince said, because whenever he lights a lamp, he adds one more star to the sky.




because they are beautiful, they must be useful.


We used to have them in the colonial past but in the name of modernisation they were all swept away.

"but then, he's very charming, and very, very sweet"

so i gave him two kissy kissy.




Must have item for every fan.

ambivalent

of course i really like to have this chair, but also feel much distaste for the overt commercialisation of this person, not his fault, our fault.



anyone will really sit on it? to imagine that he's around you? no, i won't (because i can't eat, drink or fart(!) on this chair)

so tell me, where does all the money go

wouldn't it be nice to read in office

"It is quite true that I have worshipped you with far more romance of feeling than a man usually gives to a friend … well from the moment I met you, your personality had the most extraordinary influence over me. I quite admit that I adored you madly, extravagantly, absurdly. I was jealous of every one to whom you spoke. I wanted to have you all to myself. I was only happy when I was with you. When I was away from you, you were still present in my art."

my working mood already slipped away, so i have work to do (even told to be urgent) but i just drowned to reading dorian gray again. that's the original text (and later was amended by wilde because it's just too explicit of ... what?) it's so beautifully written and gives me so much association and imagination.

i heard that there will be a film soon, another attempt to kill the novel.

friends within darkness, but no friend in the white cube

What if I say no?
What if I say fuck off?
But you don't get it
cos my weakness is,
I was far too polite.




the more i read, the more i fall for him! but his books are always expensive, always put in my wishlist. to quote his verse for my present feeling,



"finally, starved and beaten, I had to go into
the streets to be interviewed for low-paying and
monotonous
jobs
by strange men behind desks
men without eyes men without faces
who would take away my hours
break them
piss on them."

- Charles Bukowski

blank entry, i have nothing to say

Everyone seems very busy in the office, i doubt if they are just like me, looking perplexed, staring at the screen constantly, sometimes pressing the keyboard. Do they really have so many works to do, everyday and every hour? or it is just the usual survival kit in office life? i'm also busy, (actually i have real job to do, but i'm just procrastinating) i'm busy to surf around (so it proves that the policy of restricting access is correct?) and now even go to blogging .... no, actually, i don't have anything to update my blog, i'm just too idle.

I discovered that i have updated 4 times in June and the index shows June (4) on the left-hand side, humm....

surfing around is good, or else i won't be aware that there will be godard review in september. (wow, will the film shows really be so completed?)

I don't want to earn my living, I want to live

- 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.

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.

Crucifixion is the easy life

Journal For Plague Lovers-Manic Streets Preachers

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.

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?

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.

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

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.