Nothing

In a world towards to an end, apocalypse does not present itself with grandeur. It does not come with a bang, it does not come with a planet colliding into the earth. It befalls on a Thursday, a Thursday afternoon that seems endless. With the grey sky covering the city like a heavy lid, with people in the metropolis strolling reluctantly and their face deadpan and expressionless.

“Finished. It’s finished. Nearly finished. It must be nearly finished,” uttered J, flipping another piece of pancake over. 

“And their only sense is senselessness,” J turned around and started crushing blueberries. 

“And what might become of them,” continued J, at the same time opening his fridge for some syrup and butter.

“Nothing. They shall all be devoured by nothingness.” He put the syrup and butter on the table and sat down.

“Do you really intend to end the world, once and for all?” asked a squeaky voice of a boy. J looked over to the windowsill. It was a skinny boy standing outside by the window, in his sailor shirt, possibly nine years of age. 

J did not answer.

“Do you really?” the boy asked again, almost begging.

“I am sorry dear, but sometimes things just have to end,” finally answered J apologetically.  

The boy seemed like he was about to cry, but he merely walked away.

J forced a poignant smile and looked away. When he finally looked back, the boy was already gone. The only thing left to be seen was the pots of mint on the windowsill, which had already started to wither.

J could hear the boy whimper from afar.

This is the way the world ends.

This is the way the world ends.

This is the way the world ends.

Not with a bang but a whimper.

***

indebted to:

T. S. Eliot, The Hollow Men

Samuel Beckett, Fin de Partie

Becoming

“Come to me, please. Come to me. Please, be coming.” I picked up a book from the thick pile of old books in the flea market. Why I chose this particular one to look at I did not know— maybe it was because of the hardcover, with the binding almost broken, and the gilding worn out. I always had a sentiment for old things. I longed for the golden age and was nostalgic for an era I was too young to have lived. I opened the book, and was somehow overwhelmed by the old German typeface—almost, illegible. As I was trying to decipher the genre of the book, a note fell off.

“Come to me, please. Come to me. Please, be coming.” For some reason it was written in English with a thin, spider-like handwriting. I immediately had this typical confined woman image in my head—sick, delicate woman-of-letters, sitting by the window in an attic. Daily recreation: looking over the marketplace and imagine herself to be part of the hustle and bustle. 


But to whom was she addressing? I could feel the intensity of her pining. In German there is this fine term Sehnsucht. I could feel her Sehnsucht by her use of present progressive to indicate future. It levels up the certainty. Her addressee would not only come but also be coming. Possibility ascertained. Appointment made. Promise pledged.

I did not know what become of her, or them. I just picked up this old book in a flea market and this old note fell off. I did not know if the addressee eventually received the note and kept it safe in memory of their union, or the note, sadly undelivered, simply stayed unread in this old book, a hopeless dead letter center, only to be discovered by a visitor in a transient flea market decades and decades after.

I shuddered at my thought of the second possibility. Ah, humanity!

***

indebted to:

Herman Melville, Bartleby, the Scrivener

"There was a knock on the door"

There was a knock on the door.

I looked up from “Happy Days”—(which, incidentally, with all due respect, I was just not able to comprehend as a comedy. And all the religious blahblah some people were imposing on it! Reductive.)—it was not a knock on the door per se, for I was actually sitting in the train. Funny rapture from reality, sometimes reading seemed to do to you.

It was not a knock on the door per se. Rather, it was a little boy in his Russian beanie, possibly 4 years of age, knocking on the glass barrier near the door for some reason. As I was looking up he pressed his face against the glass, which added a cute touch of distortion to his chubby face. Our eyes met. Blue eyes. Very blue eyes.

How he resembles a golden fish, thought I, cracked up a little bit by his comic expression. I smiled at him. It was a rare friendly gesture for me in a train ride, during which I usually just read or write to avoid unnecessary eye contacts with other passengers.

For a moment he seemed to be shy seeing me smiling at him. He looked away, half concealing his face, but still turned back to me after a few seconds and smiled back. It was the most heart-melting smile I’ve seen for quite a while, for my entire life even. This is way too cute, thought I, and widened my smile to a grin. I could see from the reflection of the glass barrier the baggy thingy underneath my eyes. I only had those when I was really having a hearty smile.

There was this narrow space between the pole and the glass barrier. “Dada.” He squeezed his tiny hand through the narrow space. Tiny 4-year-old hand, wearing an emerald checked glove matching his Russian beanie.

Was he trying to make a handshake with me? What does he mean by dada? I was genuinely intrigued. However, unsure about what he meant to do, I did not venture to shake his hand. A handshake within such a narrow space between the glass and the pole did not translate to me as the most desirable idea at the moment. Plus, what if his parents, who possibly happened to have looked away when we were having our earlier connection, think that I was trying to cause harm to their precious boy?

I could not reciprocate other than, apologetically, giving him my most hearty smile.

flexibility

"You know you really should do some stretching before you swim."

She turned around and saw this young guy talking to her. Blond curly hair, freakishly white teeth, and a dazzling smile. He probably worked as a lifeguard in this private beach.

"But I am not going to swim. I will just bathe." She answered, slightly annoyed by the perfection this young man represented: health, youthfulness, and possibly posh upbringing. He might work as a lifeguard, but seriously, what did he know about life at all?

"I am sorry. But rules are rules. No room for flexibility." insisted the young man. He probably never violated a single rule in this 25-years-of-life, thought she, though still formed a pliant smile, "Alright then. Stretching it is."

She was willing to do anything to drive the nuisance away. After all, she did not come all the way to this fancy private beach just to be bugged.

She started undressing herself. It was a chilly autumn afternoon and she was somehow overdressed. Beanie, scarf, cardigan, her tunic, after a minute she was only left with her flowy petticoat. Her bony arms were exposed to the cold air. She flinched and started stretching.

The blond lifeguard, satisfied to see his demand met, walked away towards the direction of the bar.

She ceased stretching and walked into the sea. The water was freezing. She gradually lost her perception of temperature. Extreme heat or extreme coldness, it did not really matter to her.

She kept on walking and walking. The water level had come up and reached the brim of her nose. Oblivious to the impending discomfort, she closed her eyes.

She did not intend to swim. As a matter of fact, she never really learned how to swim.

She opened up her arms and embraced the water. It was a serene Thursday afternoon. The sea was silent. No waves at all.

Till human voice wakes us 
And we drown.


**
indebted to:

Kate Chopin, The Awakening
T. S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Voices

Voices. How come you walk on the street without noticing the voices? The maternal consolation that follows the baby cries. The dancing branches with yellowing leaves. The hue of the city is fading. The autumn is joining us. The kids throwing stones at the lake. The mischievous girl stirring the water with a long stick, ignorant of the possible result of messing with the seemingly tamed swans.

The city is full of voices. Other than the turkish German coming from the vendors of the big street, other than the artificial voice reminding you to take the exit on the opposite side of the elevator in a U Bahn station. The city is full of other voices. Maybe only perceivable when you least expect them. The breeze, the sunlight (that is soon to vanish when the winter gets us), the rapidly spinning leave that almost resembles an insect or a ninja star. The voices are only perceivable when your mind goes blank. When your brain is no longer haunted by "I shouldn't have done this and that" "I should've done this and that" and "I still need to do this and that." With sleep deprivation and the ensuing caffeine overdose you start to perceive the voices. The cat sunbathing in the yard-- you can almost hear its whiskers mumbling an ode of the insolence. The warming sunlight rubbing against your back-- you hear your blood murmuring, reminding you of your next engagement-- "Chocolate. Chocolate. Or tea cake will be nice."

How come you walk on the street without noticing the voices? They are everywhere. Coming from the inside and the outside. You only need to stop and listen. Stop thinking and just listen.

Doll

I never understood little girls' (or boys, for that matter) quasi-fetish for dolls. Dolls always creep me out. When I walked on the alley of Toys R Us I always felt the stare coming from thousands of blue painted eyes of Barbie Dolls. They tend to be blond, wavy hair, with disproportionate big breasts and freakishly long legs. They stood so silently in the narrow plastic box with their plastic accessories. Smiling radiantly, as if to flaunt their artificial beauty, non-existent wealth, or arguable youth. They do not age, granted, but the eternal youth most certainly is not derived from the fountain of youth. They are beautiful corpses at most, each after each, confined in a transparent coffin. Upon this thought I always shuddered. In my slightly peculiar nine-year-old mind Toys R Us was not the wonderland for kids, but some revery for the necrophile. And I never wanted to imagine how the stacks of Barbie Doll boxes would look like at midnight, during the wee hours when the dark, the dead, or the undead supposedly  wake up and party.

As much as I do not fancy Barbie Dolls, born as a girl, I still received many. Unlike my very gender normal peers who collected pink and puffy Barbie dresses my dolls were either stripped or decapitated. Why I even did that I do not remember. But adults were visiting and saw what became of their gifts they did stop giving me Barbie Doll as presents at some point. My parents scolded me for not taking good care of my toys. "Look at your sister. She even made a closet for her Barbie dresses." But the thing is I did not want them in the first place. Despite my lack of care for Barbie Dolls, my mother would bring me to Toys R Us every time I achieved a tiny accomplishment: scoring top in school or win another writing contest. Little did she know, those visits to Toys R Us seemed to me more like (if I shall phrase it positively) a thrilling adventure to a haunted house than a fulfilling treasure hunt. Just think of the smell of sheer plastic, the cold, lifeless stares from the equally lifeless rubber beauty trapped in glass coffins. No it wasn't a treat. It wasn't a treat at all.

Sponge

Does it ever occur to you that a dry sponge looks a bit like cheese? Holely. Yellow. Dry. No you surely don’t like dry cheese. French cheese is the best. The more they stink the more you drool over them. You always say does Gouda even count as cheese? Uncreative color and uncreative texture. No you don’t like Gouda. The only non-French cheese you can put up with is feta and cheddar. You can munch on them like a mouse. You remember when you were in France there was always this fancy cheese plate between the main courses and the dessert. Unlike most of your poor lactose-intolerant friends you had no problems at all. You didn’t even need baguette or red wine to go with the cheese plate. Roquefort and camembert were a must, if it was a special occasion you got Mont d’Or, or even Maroilles when you were traveling in the North.

Outside France you were still choosey in terms of cheese. You went to the supermarket hunting for good cheese but they seemed boring. The Allgäu disappointed you and you forgot it in the corner of your fridge. When you finally thought of it and fished it out from the fridge it was already old and dry. You took a bite and frowned: this not only looks like sponge, it actually tastes like sponge! You got rid of the old cheese and started doing the dishes. The sponge was dry. It looked kind of like an old flat piece of cheese. You rinsed the sponge and started scrubbing the plates. Bubbles popped out with detergent. You were washing with bare hands and the cold water and bubbles pierced your already rough hands. The rinsed sponge turned soft, and your hands had an even  rougher texture in comparison.

You turned around and saw your roommate. “Does it ever occur to you that dry sponge looks a bit like cheese?” ‘Nope,’ said she. ‘I don’t care for cheese and do you have to relate everything with food? You just had your dinner.’ You shrugged, and kept on doing your dishes. ‘I am glad you got rid of the cheese though. Our fridge stinks.’ You formed an apologetic smile and promised you would take out the trash today. Your roommate proceeded to her room; you finished the dishes, put the sponge near the sink to dry itself. “I still think dry sponge looks a bit like cheese.” You said to yourself. Nobody in the kitchen, you walked slowly back to the room with your rough hands still slightly hurt from the stimulation of detergent.

lipogram on i

She wrote and erased several sentences. Such task was a great challenge. To carry out the task, she was not allowed to refer to herself anymore, not to adopt the most natural method at least. That one-lettered word she always took granted for was now a taboo. And the absence of the word made the word’s presence even stronger. Thesaurus seemed to be a must, but as a student who constantly worked on words and forged terms, she was too proud to use the help from a thesaurus. Other than self-reference, she also had to abandon the present tense. That was harder for her than for her fellow workshop partners perhaps, for the present tense had always been the most natural way for her to narrate, or at least express herself. Her mother tongue does not have a developed concept of tense, when people narrate on events that took place before; they only resort to the aspect. Rather than “One could not sleep at all on July 14^th for people were loud on the street” they would say “On July 14^th one cannot sleep for people are loud on the street.” She was amused to see how one event seems to have become a statement, a truth that would apply always just now.

Yesterday she bade a temporary goodbye to Europe. She would love to name that European place, but the rule does not allow. The name of the place happened to have the taboo letter. Anyways, she bade goodbye to Europe and was now on the plane on her homeward journey. How she would love to name her hometown as well! She always thought that the name of her hometown evoked huge wanderlust. Though people would confuse the name of her hometown often. There was another place that evoked just as much (maybe more) wanderlust. She used to be rather unhappy about that, but soon afterwards she got used to that. Rather than a strong statement as “No, not that country, but the one near PRC” to embarrass people, she would just let that pass.

She would land on Hong Kong soon. The temperature would be around 30ºC,  stated the broadcast just now. After she landed, she would only be one stop away from her hometown. Soon enough, she would be able to see her parents. They would meet her up. Her red toy poodle would be there too, and maybe even the soon-to-be-newly-wed. One page reached. She was somewhat proud that she had not broken the taboo yet. But just at the moment a thought occurred to her: had she not planned to work on her term paper on the plane?  

Kitchen

(Dad I know you read my blog. This is fictional, just so that you know...)

According to the patriarchal discourse, an ideal woman needs to both master at culinary art and be presentable in social occasions. She always finds the idea appalling. Why don’t you just marry your cook and dress her as a social butterfly? Though from the inside she is a rebel, she still strives to be a pliant daughter, or at least aims to look like one. So there she is, one and a half hour before dinnertime, she would help her mother wash the vegetables, set the dishes, and serve one dish after another. She always waits beside the kitchen door, waiting to be called upon, intimidated by the steaming heat within the kitchen. Her mother used to be a very charming woman—petite, always smiles, naturally flirty, and good-humored. There are pictures of her 20s to prove that. But when she sees her mother’s tiny figure sweating, frying the vegetables or fish with a giant spatula, she cannot help but feel sad for her. The best of her years are gone now. Her mother is no longer the hearty girl courted by numerous suitors, but a mere mediocre, maybe even clumsy housewife. She wonders if that will also become of her. Upon this thought, she shakes her head tremendously, hoping to banish the thought away. This is not what she wants to end up, a clumsy sweaty housewife in a hopeless steaming kitchen. Some people say she looks just like her mother, while some other says she is no way like her. But in the pictures she took with her mother she still sees they have the same shape of eyes. Her mother did not have a college education. As if carrying out a vicarious wish fulfillment, she always goes to the best school growing up. She is not particularly hardworking, but passably intellectual. She lives up to the parental expectation without putting too much thought into it. It just seems like the right thing to do: go to college, participate in class, and get good grades. In her first year of college she read Ibsen’s A Doll’s House, and afterwards she cannot stand her mother’s tiny figure in the kitchen anymore. It is a pitiable scene, she tells herself. She does not want to end up like this. She will not end up like this.

“Tell Papa dinner’s ready,” says her mother, waking her up from the long trance. “Will do,” says she, walks to the phone. “Dinner’s ready, Papa.” She sits herself down on the corner of the dinner table, waiting for her father to come down stairs from the 5^th floor, where he has the fancy amplifiers, plasma TV and all his electronic gadgets. “Smells good,” says her Papa. She forms a smile, waits for her mother to come out from the kitchen. 

The Water Tower

The Water Tower, a tower made of water. How do you consolidate water to construct tower if the temperature does not permit? So the temperature has to permit. So let there be winter. Let there be light. Let there be water. Three elements and one wonder—let there be The Water Tower.

The sun shines through the transparent walls. The refraction of the light deteriorates the way the inhabitants perceive. The outside world is right there, seemingly of walking distance, but the form fuzzy and escape seems impossible. Some very old inhabitants might still remember the exact form of a maple leave. Maple leaves must be ages ago. Ages ago as in they were still babies and the eternal winter, not yet befell.  

Conversations are frozen as ice cubes. Fire is prohibited for logistical reasons. All they can do is wave bare hands, in hope that the ice cubes will melt. In the end people don’t bother to talk. What is the point of talking, if it takes ages to decode what is spoken? Especially the decoded conversations oftentimes are nothing but a long whimper. Living in a confined frozen space, what else is to be spoken?

The inhabitants do not talk. They sit by, but not against, the transparent wall, for fear that their skin might be stuck on the wall and it takes a hundred inhabitant’s laborious waving to free the pathetic being pinned and wriggling on the wall. Incidents like that used to happen, but now people do not bother to rescue anyone anymore. If you get pinned, you die. Since with such low temperature, the corpse will not perish. They will remain as Snow White in the glass coffin. Maybe with not so charming an ending posture, rather their struggles and fear frozen at the prime moment. Perhaps the inhabitants think those people are responsible for their own stupidity. Perhaps a tower made of consolidated water does not translate to solidarity. The inhabitants just happen to be there. There is no sense of community since even the oldest inhabitants cannot recall how they end up trapped there in the first place.

The inhabitants do not wait for Godot. Since waiting entails hope, and hope is nonexistent in this frozen space. The sensibility to the world is somehow lost. (Except getting pinned on the wall. That sight is still embarrassing even in this frozen water inferno). The inhabitants do not feel the cold, neither are they cheered up by the sunlight. Sunlight only means sight, but for most of them sight is meaningless as well. The refraction ruins the point of sight. If they cannot tell real from surreal, what is the point of looking? You might wonder if they get bored. But the truth is they do not, for they no longer perceive the passing of time anymore. Paralysis is the epitome of The Water Tower, and inaction seems to be the mantra.

You might ask, “How do they feel?” Despite the disassociation of sensibility, despite the inability of sensing the temporal advancement, the inhabitants do sometimes feel lonely. No, since the temporal concept does not exist, “sometimes” might as well be replaced by “eternally.” Any frozen moment is the eternity. The inhabitants are eternally lonely. As mentioned above, the sense of community does not exist. The only sense of union proper is the collective consciousness of loneliness. What else to expect, if they are trapped, not talking to each other, and indifferent to each other’s suffering (or more precisely, getting pinned on the wall and wriggling)? The loneliness is so present that it transforms into an incessant series of screams. The inhabitants might have already lost their hearing, so the screaming gets lost within their minds. It will not be hard after all to imagine their mindscape. It will not be hard after all, since the very reason why they cannot feel the cold is their minds are already the coldest place—colder than the polar waste. At least cold enough to freeze their sensibility.

So is the tale of The Water Tower. Here no verdure is to be seen, only frozen water and refracted sunlight. Let there be light, let there be water, let there be winter. Let there be The Water Tower.  Let there be the collective consciousness of eternal loneliness.

The Wasps

The wasps. What crazy pronunciation. What a cluster of sibilants. One wasp flies into a bottle and traps itself. Its wings get damp and cannot come out. Five minutes later another flies into the same bottle and joins its struggling fellow. Maybe they are neither suicidal nor stupid, rather awfully romantic-- what can be a more byronic death than drowning oneself in an Africola sea? 

We watch the wasps dance in wonder. Arch enemies in a duel-- made for each other, made to destroy each other, with one being destined to die in another's wings. Might also be lovers. Refuse to be separated from each other. Could not be born together, but at least will die together. This ultimate performance of buzz dance drains the final living power of the skinny striped torsos-- dueling, or the final consummation.

Consummation at last. Lovers or arch enemies, to every wasp a romantic ending.

Wasps in a bottle. A rare sunny Berliner afternoon in summer 2011. 

I knew the glass had gone and the bird had gone,

"Nothing stirred in the drawing room or in the dining room or on the stair case."

"We will all go-- courtesy requires that we all go."

"So perhaps escape is possible."

"I knew the glass had gone and the bird had gone."

****

"I knew the glass had gone and the bird had gone," scolded the mistress in a black, austere dress. She walked to and fro in the room, even her footsteps sounded reproachful. The servants shrugged, looking more innocent than ever.

"I am not going without William!" cried the kid from the far end of the house, still refused to believe that her pet canary was gone. "Enough Sabrina!" the mistress turned around, making her way to the source of the noises. "We will all go-- courtesy requires that we all go."

"But William is gone! I am not going without William!" Sabrina burst into an intolerably incessant session of screaming. She was lying on the ground in her white dress, her one hand holding the empty cage, another knocking on the ground; her both feet waving tremendously, revealing her petticoat. She was waiting for her mother to give in because she always got what she wanted. She would have made a sweet girl if she weren't screaming with her hair all messed up with tears and mucus.

William was hiding behind an especially leafy branch. "Oh, the brat crying again. What a bore." He was glad that he got out of this, this depressing mansion, with the spoiling psycho mother, scheming servants and the spoiled brat. Yesterday the brat insisted on feeding him herself with peppermint chocolate. It was not exactly his first choice of food, but he, being the lowest in the power hierarchy of the house, had of course no say in what he was being fed. The brat lost interest of feeding him after a while and ran elsewhere with the cage still open. People were unguarded. He saw the only maid in the room sneakily slipped an exquisite glass underneath her apron. "So perhaps escape is possible." thought he. It was now or never. He flew out of the cage, out of the window. He was free.

His prison break was a success. Nothing stirred in the drawing room or in the dining room or on the stair case.

Haiku: Wheels

Lying on the grass

With my identical twin

Waiting for the sun

(It's a novel idea for me doing Haiku in English: struggling with syllable counts the whole time.)

Terina: tea/chocolate/sleep

The first thing she does after waking up is make tea

and while water's boiling she took a piece of chocolate

while her fat son is still sound asleep

Sometimes she really needs a good night's sleep

and upon waking up, somebody would've made the tea

and beside the tea cup, a plate of her favorite chocolate

After he reached 200 pounds his mother forbids him to eat chocolate

to fill the void, he can do nothing but cry to sleep

and upon waking up, what awaits him, a drepressing cup of bitter tea

Les Sept vieillards

What happened to the seven dwarfs when Snow White got married and lived happily ever after with Prince Charming? They became the seven old men: seven pathetic teeny tiny identical old men on a suburban street. They couldn't stand the loneliness and always headed out together in their beret hats, flannel shorts and walking sticks made of linden wood. "Good day young lady. Enjoying the sunshine?" they would ask with one voice, like a flawless old men choir. They always got the attention they were yearning for. For even though the seven teeny tiny old men's march might look pathetic at the first glance, they were, after all, amusing. "Good day, old men. How are you holding up? Does Snow White and Prince Charming still visit you guys every now and then?" A not so sensitive damsel would ask, having absolutely no idea how horrible losing Snow White was for the seven old men. "Aye, every now and then." The seven old men would answer in unison, though that was obviously not the truth. When they headed back to their little hut making tea for seven they always fell into this melancholy silence. Until one of the seven old men finally brought up the taboo topic " I miss Snow White. I wonder what she's doing in the castle. She doesn't come visit us anymore." The seven old men would then sigh altogether, shaking their heads identically, "We miss Snow White. We miss making tea for eight. We are seven teeny tiny pathetic old men."

Knock knock. Somebody at the door. The seven old men rushed to the door no longer in marching order. They asked, not so simultaneously, "Who is it?"

Nobody at the door. It was only the sound made by a pecker.

ennui

Ennui is when we were sitting at this café in Neukölln and we decided we are bored. Bored, nothing to be done, ennui. Ennui is the state of mind in which you are neither happy nor suffering. It’s worse than suffering for if you suffer at least you FEEL something. Ennui, in Eliot’s phrasing, is the disassociation of sensibilities. Disassociation to real life, you don’t feel anything. Neither happy nor sad, you feel like you walk into a virtual-reality room with your cool high-tech glasses. It’s not a dream it’s a limbo. Are you on the boat on the Lethe? I don’t know much about the Christian underworld but in the tradition Chinese underworld you keep on walking, walking till you reach this bridge. Beside the bridge the old lady awaits and she would give you this soup of oblivion. Finish the soup, and you are good to go. Reincarnation, all the hatred, passion, haunting memories traumas genuine laughter profound sighs all gone, forgotten. Ennui is the state of quasi-oblivion. You are having the soup but not yet done. Fragments of your life run in front of your eyes and you somehow feel unattached. It could be your life, or any others’ life. Memory is the most valuable thing in your existence. It constructs your soul. You are not Faust. You cannot trade your soul for something greater you choose oblivion only because it’s easier. It’s always easier starting new. It’s always easier getting rid of all the baggage. The old lady, did I say her name is Monpuo? Monpuo waits till you finish your soup and you are good to go. Walk pass the bridge, never look back. You’ve walked passed the ennui zone and you are now a fresh newborn. Like a baby, yeah, like a baby. Babies are always curious they are never infected by ennui. They probably need some twenty years time to know what ennui is. But remember, remember there are some souls who sneaked and tricked Monpuo. They decided to cling onto the old memory and did not finish the soup. So if you see that sad baby lying in a baby cart looking onto the sky don’t be surprised. He just didn’t finish his soup and is already suffering from ennui.

A sparrow landed on the table

A sparrow landed on the table and was looking at me with its innocent round eyes. You are one tini tiny sparrow, said I. The sparrows I had seen back in my university in Taipei were a lot chubbier. They basically looked like tennis balls. The sparrow tilted its head, gave me a reproachful look as if saying: don’t affiliate me with those fatasses, I am one skinny badass. Indeed, among all the sparrows I’ve seen in my 23-years of life, this fellow seems like a badass. I can almost imagine it with its sparrow sunglasses, sparrow-sized leather jacket on its sparrow motorbike. So what do you plan to do fellow, you wanna have some breakfast with me? The scrambled egg I am having is horrible, but if you don’t mind you can take one piece of the overcooked bacon from me. The sparrow jumped closer, and I found it nice. I just met a sparrow fellow and I am making some new friends while having breakfast alone! The sparrow jumped closer, even closer, its beak almost touching my bacon. “Away! You creepy creature! What do you think you are doing here?” With the walking-by birdphobic waitress’ threatening gesture my tiny new friend flew away. “I am sorry missy, I hope the sparrow didn’t ruin your breakfast.” “It’s totally ok.” Said I, trying to form my most genuine smile. Alas, my crappy breakfast, my castaway new friend!

My nerves are bad tonight.

“My nerves are bad tonight. In fact, my nerves have been bad for a very, very long time. I cannot fall asleep at night, nor can I stay awake during the day.” Said the chubby woman at the bar. “But Marie, I thought you are on Stilnox. Doesn’t it work?” asked another woman voice, slightly high-pitched. “I stopped taking Stilnox. It gave me crazy dreams. I almost always have a panic attack when I wake up.” Answered Marie, making a desperate hand gesture. She has always been the drama Queen. She actually secretly thought she was the reincarnation of Cleopatra and she just couldn’t understand how she ended up here, a filthy bar in the cockney London, in her ill-fitted Monsoon clothes.

She was the prom Queen of her high school. A Queen indeed, who was always in her spaghetti strips and mini-skirts, escorted by a jock from the football team. Life was wonderful then. People worshipped her. If they didn’t, at least they were afraid of her. She starred Cleopatra in the school play. Who could be Cleopatra but her? She was so tanned, so skinny, so full of passions; who could be Cleopatra but her?

She followed her Anthony to the Great Britain. Of course her parents did not approve. Her Anthony had got nothing: no money, no influential relatives, all he had got was a flaming heart and big dreams. She followed him still: for they were inseparable and she cannot imagine her life without him. So Anthony and Cleopatra went to London, where things worked quite differently from their small hometown of Tennessee. People were making fun of Anthony’s accent. They thought he sounds too “American.” People there did not care for Anthony and Cleopatra. All they cared about was how many pennies they would be getting this week and where they could spend them all.

“My nerves are bad tonight.” She started using this excuse to turn Anthony down. He was not the same anymore. Looking into the reflection of the mirror, she knew she’s also not the same anymore. Getting old is a bitch. She’s become a chubby Cleopatra. And she knew, soon enough, she wouldn’t even need to use that excuse anymore.

She went to the bar, the cheapest bar in the neighborhood. Where she always came alone. “A gin Tonic and a Martini please.” The bartender smiled at her. All of a sudden she thought maybe she’s still got it.

“My nerves are bad tonight.” She said, taking a sip from the Gin Tonic. “But Marie, I thought you are on Stilnox. Doesn’t it work?” she continued, with a sip from the martini. “I stopped taking Stilnox. It gave me crazy dreams. I almost always have a panic attack when I wake up.” She answered herself, taking another sip from the Gin Tonic. The bartender looked at her. She smiled back. She thought, after all these years, Cleopatra’s still got it.

Chess

A game of chess. Does not necessarily involve seduction. Seduction triggers adultery. Gerontion would have said, why bother having passion, since all passion will eventually be adulterated?

Knowing the rules is simple, mastering, beyond difficult. Some people have talents whereas some not. Knowing the rules is one thing, making calculation, another story. Does mastering chess then make one scheming and calculative? Some say life is like a game of chess. We are all chess pieces. The invisible hand makes our moves and we don’t have a choice at all. Manipulated. We don’t have to be manipulated if we refuse to believe in fate. Some young and intellectual minds I know do not believe in fate anymore. That was one of the first culture shocks I encounter here in Europe.

Black and white. The Dionysian power and the Apollonian power. Does one have to get drunk to achieve true art? Why are so many artists so disgruntled and mentally fucked-up? Melancholia and optimism. Blind optimism is downright stupid. Being an optimist doesn’t help you save the world. Nor does abiding rules necessarily help solve the problems. Some stick to the rules and do everything right but still suffer. Real life isn’t black and white. The only realistic black-and-white object in the world is probably a documentary film.

Shall we play chess tonight? Shall we perform the opposing force of black and white? Or do you prefer watching a boring black and white documentary film?

Haircut

The writer is fascinated about the hair of his mistress. Black, silky, long, plausibly perfumed. He doesn’t recognize the brand of the perfume. Maybe she doesn’t use perfume in the first place and the scent is something natural. Something natural, something exotic. She lies beside him, spreading her hair wildly on the bed sheet. Black and white, the sharpest contrast. So sharp that it pierces the eyes a little bit. Her hair is like a black cataract, a black silk cataract. “Can I keep a lock of your hair? In memory of the beautiful days we had.” He knows she’s a keeper but deep inside his heart he knows he and her, it won’t last forever. There is nothing either black or white. Most often gray takes over. The moral gray zone. The relationship gray zone. The gray heavy sky pressing on the street strollers. So gray, so heavy that they cannot breathe. Gray is unbearable. Maybe that’s why the writer is fascinated about the black hair. The black hair won’t stay black forever. Flowers will wither and wrinkles will appear on her flawless skin. The writer wants to cut a lock of his mistress’ hair. When it’s still black. Cut it, do cut it when it’s still black. She won’t be young and beautiful forever.

Walk

It’s fascinating observing how people walk. In big cities people are always rushing to their next stop and they walk so rapidly that it almost seems like running. But are they always in a rush? Could it be that they are only avoiding the state of being in-between? Maybe not being in-between, but being torn-between. “Torn”, the past participle of “tear”. It’s not a coincidence that the word “tear” looks so much like the one we use for the liquid streaming down your face when you are sad. Could you stop crying please? He always begs. But if you are torn apart it’s hard to keep the tears from being shed. You want to feel better so you go for a walk. But except your footsteps you hardly feel anything. It’s almost like the world has stopped making sense to you. The sunlight is indifferent, the breeze indifferent as well, and the waiter in the café nonchalant. You keep on walking, ignoring everything you perceive (but do not pay attention to) hoping the mind will go blank. But the tears are shedding, you cannot help it. You are walking, torn by tears. He said, would you please please please please please stop crying please? “But I cannot help it,” said you. “I am sorry.” You folded the laptop and went out for a walk. You were walking alone. You almost always have to walk alone. There’s no other options.

He is dead, the beautiful youth

“He is dead, the beautiful youth.” Said the middle-aged woman, wiping her eyes. The small town was shocked. People were lining up in the flower shops. The funeral would take place in two days. Kids were crying on the street but the adults had no time to care for them. He was dead, the beautiful youth. And the town was shattered.

“How could this have happened?” people were furious, protesting in front of the town hall. The mayor was condemned and was forced to resign. “Did he not receive enough care? Did he not get enough water, enough food? How could this have happened?” the rage took over the town. People could not think reasonably for they lost the treasure of the town—he was dead, the beautiful youth.

“He’s better off this way.” Said a rebellious young man, immediately brought about the turmoil in the town hall. People were outraged. Some even started throwing stones at the speaker. “Tazio belongs to the venetian seashore.” Reasserted the young man. “He does not belong to the giant glass prison we built for him.” He dodged some more stones and walked away.

Tazio was the wonder of the city. When the town poet brought him back from Venice, the whole town was ardently in love with this beautiful creature at first sight. People were losing control and lining up for spending 20 seconds with the beautiful youth. Under extreme public pressure, the town poet had no choice but donate Tazio to the town.

It was not the only donation. People of the town donated tens and thousands of gold to build a palace for the befitting prince. It had to be made of glass so that the townspeople can watch him, worshipping his beauty any time, any day.

The Venetian prince died two months after the grand opening of the glass palace. He was dead, the beautiful youth. The town was inconsolable, for he was dead, the beautiful youth.

Sunlight

He was sitting on the bench in this small park, watching people come and go. Single mothers with a baby cart, gay couple with a lively golden retriever, kids playing baseball. They were all there to enjoy the sunlight of the mid spring in Berlin, whereas he was not.

He was born with this mysterious disease that subjected him to an extreme level of photosensitivity. He was never allowed to go to the beach for his skin started burning after five minutes’ exposure to sunlight. His all time nickname remained “mummy” or “the serial killer,” for he had always been covered with layers of clothing protecting him from the sunlight. One might exclaim: how pathetic to lead a life like that! Never being able to enjoy the sunlight! However, he didn’t find it a completely undesirable life. All he had to do was avoiding the sunlight and the night was full of wonders. He loved the very fact that while people stayed home at night, snoring on bed, he was the one out for adventures. He was the hero of the night. Lonesome maybe, but all heroes are lonesome.

Last night, as he was on his usual quest of outing at night, he met the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Sandy hair, gray eye, tempestuous smile, she was the goddess of the night. She did not care for him, just like all femme fatale treated men like dirt. She did, however, asked him to meet her up in the middle of the day: to show your sincerity, said she. “Then we’ll see how things work out.”

So there he was, sitting on the bench under the burning sunlight of the noon. He felt himself burning but he didn’t care, for it was no comparison with the burning desire that he wanted to see her again. 5 minutes, 10 minutes, 15 minutes. He felt himself shrinking, decaying, and finally, disappearing. She was nowhere to be seen. 20 minutes, he lost his sight, but it was ok, he could recognize her footsteps with his extremely sensitive ears. 25 minutes, he lost his hearing as well and she missed the appointment. 30 minutes, he could not feel his existence anymore. He wanted to cry out but lost his voice as well. 35 minutes, he vanished, left the world with a whimper. The goddess of the night was still nowhere to be seen.

“What’s that, Papa?” asked a little boy licking ice cream. “It’s a pile of dirty laundry. I can’t believe people just leave it here like that. Let’s go.” Said the father.

The sun was setting and people were leaving the park. The bench was empty except for the stack of shroud he left for the indifferent world.

Two Strangers On A Train

Man: Hello.

Woman: (taking off her earphone, looks up) Oh, hi! I haven’t seen you like forever. (nervous laughter)

Man: Whoever you think I am, I am not that guy. I’m just a stranger.

Woman: I thought you were some other friend of mine. So, what do you want, stranger?

Man: I don’t want anything.

Woman: I’m relieved. But then why are you talking to me?

Man: I have nothing better else to do.

Woman: (slightly offended) Well, thank YOU. and I guess that makes the two of us due to the very fact that I’m actually talking to you.

Man: I’m separated with my wife.

Woman: Well, I’m sorry.

Man: No you are not sorry. You don’t even know me.

Woman: But I suppose it’s a sad thing. After all, you must have been in love and that’s why you got married.

Man: No, we were not in love. I was in love, but all she wanted was the German citizenship.

Woman: And can you blame her on that! What is she?

Man: She’s North Korean. Pretty fucked-up country.

Woman: How did you manage to meet a North Korean in the first place?

Man: I found her on the street crying alone. She said her country abandoned her.

Woman: Sad story.

Man: Anyway we got married so that she wouldn’t get deported to this troubled country.

Woman: That’s very nice of you. Not everyone can do that.

Man: You never met her. The sad look of her eyes… I can go to hell for her.

Woman: I can believe that.

Man: But then she fell in love with this other guy.

Woman: I’m sorry to hear that.

Man: Don’t be. She’s better off this way.

Woman: How so?

Man: Because I have cancer.

Woman: Now I’m REALLY sorry to hear that.

Man: Don’t be.

Woman: Sorry?

Man: Cuz I’m fed up with my life anyways.

Woman: You know, there must be something still enjoyable in your life. Something.

Man: No there’s nothing.

Woman: I mean, for example, this chocolate croissant you are holding. It looks quite nice, isn’t it? Why don’t you take a bite?

Man: (takes a bite) It’s gone old.

Woman: I’m really sorry about that. Is there something I can do for you?

Man: Can you kill my ex-wife for me?

Woman: I’m sorry, that I can’t.

Man: Why do you keep saying sorry?

Woman: Why do you keep sharing sad stories?

Man: Are you accusing me of being oversharing?

Woman: Well, if you put it that way. I mean we don’t even know each other.

Man: But you look like my ex-wife.

Woman: Excuse me?

Man: She has long dark hair just like you do.

Woman: There are a lot of women with long dark hair here.

Man: But you are the one who looks like her. Tell me, why are you on this train?

Woman: I need to go to somewhere.

Man: Somewhere where?

Woman: I don’t feel obliged to tell you.

Man: You are cruel, just like my ex-wife.

Woman: I’m sorry about that.

Man: You just said you are sorry again.

Woman: And you are talking to me again.

Man: I’m sorry.

Woman: Look, mister. It’s a long ride. And if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to keep on reading.

Man: And I’ll shut up and eat my old chocolate croissant.

Woman: Whatever you want.

Man: (sits down, starts eating croissant)

Conductor: I’m sorry sir. Eating is prohibited in the U Bahn.

Man: (starts screaming nonstop)

Woman: Oh lord. (puts on her earphone again)

With Love

If you don’t feel the love, why do you put ‘with love’ in the end of a letter? Nobody likes to end a letter with an awkward silence and a lifeless signature, showing no traces of love or care or recognition. Nobody wants to be the heartless one that throws an abrupt closure right at someone else’s face. A letter with no proper closure is like slapping.  Slapping across the face in the middle of a busy street. Is there no good way of saying goodbye? If there is no good way of ending things why bother starting things in the first place?

With love, with love, is it some kind of a sarcasm that I cannot comprehend? Why don’t you write with hatred, with pains, with fury, with impatience or better yet, with indifference? “With love” is an oxymoron in a perfunctory letter. It’s a petty expression devoid of its literal connotation. When you put “with love” in the letter you are not being honest with yourself. But who cares about being true to oneself? This world is deceitful and full of vice. You put “with love” in the end of letter but could you please please please tell me, where is the love? 

The Café

She has this inability to stay in the library and that’s why she always goes out for a cup of coffee. A Café is where you get coffee. In French the coffee place and coffee is even the same word. Here you go again, says a voice in her head. She always throws those random facts to people when least expected. If you like coffee so much, why don't you become a barista? Asks the voice again. But the thing is as much as she is addicted to caffeine, she has no taste for coffee whatsoever. She always goes for the same order and the waiter starts to recognize her after a couple of times he starts ordering for her. She doesn’t mind. She never says no. She’s not in a café essentially for coffee anyway. She’s there to sit by the window and watch, maybe sometimes also being watched. In Berlin the glass window of a café tends to be huge. She likes the idea that even though she stays indoors she’s also part of the street. And sometimes people come to her and make weird faces. Drunk teenagers or funny young men. Sometimes she smiles back because she thinks it’s actually someone she knows since she’s terrible in terms of recognizing faces. But more often she feels awkward and hides her face behind the laptop. She might be voyeuristic but it’s another story being the object that’s being watched or maybe ridiculed.

She doesn’t come to a café; rather, she comes to The Café. The Café plays unobtrusive music and people there are quite. They don’t talk about far fetching business plans like people in Starbucks. People in The Café often come alone and she likes to imagine them to be artists. A melancholy writer, plausibly a junkie freshly out of rehab with a broken heart. She likes assigning stories to people. The Café is her menagerie with her being one of the performing animals. A menagerie that can be observed through a gigantic glass window. She’s part of them but at the same time she’s not part of them. But she knows she likes it. She likes The Café. She likes assigning stories to people she never met before and probably will never meet again. She is the flaneur who loses her street and willingly stays confined to The Café. She may not be a writer but she is a perfect reader. She likes The Café, the menagerie, and the stories.