My Beard Complex (15 minutes)

When I was a kid I disliked beard of all kinds. It just looked bushy and dirty to me. I always wondered if I could actually find fleas inside. I used to ask my dad to shave every other day. For as a kid I was a chubby lovely angel and my dad was always giving me a big kiss on the cheeks. That was perhaps when the beard first got annoying. Its spikiness hurt my baby cheek. I don’t recall since when my dad stopped giving me huge kisses on the cheeks. Neither do I recall since when he started shaving regularly of his own free will. I was not a kid anymore. I became a teenage girl, who still did not care for beards. In the Lord of The Rings movies I preferred Legolas to Aragon. Pretty boys are always on my mind. I was never crazy about macho men with big muscles and hairy face.

There is an old Chinese legend about a hero with red face and long beautiful beard. He even got an epithet like Guan-yu the beautiful beard. When he slept he kept his beard safe. For there are also some tales about how a man’s beard got cut off when he was asleep and he lost all his confidence at once. Of course, I see the connection: beard and virility. When his beard got cut off it’s almost as if he got castrated. When I was reading such stories I always thought: he must had beautiful beard! But when I imagine a modern man with such beard I still say to myself: I’ll pass. Or he’s got to shave.

Right now I don’t hate beard that much. It’s no longer an eyesore to me. But I still don’t fancy long beard. I am not sure if I am discriminating against long beard but I can never imagine me going on a date with a guy with long beard. It would be like going on a date with Santa Claus—long beard, rosy cheeks, hohoho! But in what stand am I allowed to discriminate against long beard? Not that I actually have some hair grown above my upper lips. It’s almost as if I had mustaches.  Guys used to make fun of that. So how am I supposed to tell you that this mustached girl holds a beard complex? I’d better just keep my mouth shut and shave my “moustache” every other day.

(And again, no offense Mike!)

The Smell of Yellow (5 minutes)

What’s the smell of yellow? I remembered the first time I read T.S. Eliot’s The Love Song of J.F. Prufrock. I thought, this yellow fog must smell quite pleasant. Imagine a cat running through the windowpane and the breeze caresses its hair. The caressing might be in a sensual, decadent way, like people’s impression on the Savoy. But as I discussed the smell of yellow in Prufrock’s context, my friends disagreed. They said it should smell like chemical, like pesticide, for it’s a product of industrialization. The air got contaminated. Not romantic at all. 

When it comes to the unpleasant side of the smell of yellow, I think about Charlotte Perkin Gilman’s The Yellow Wallpaper. The yellow, brownish stains on the yellow wallpaper. It’s a shame to the family, like this psychotic woman in the story. 

Now, yellow’s relation to sickness. I am thinking about yellow fever. I think about the yellow sail Aschenbach saw in Death in Venice. Sickly, but alluring. I think I reach a conclusion. The smell of yellow is sickly and alluring. Oh I wish I could smell the yellow fog once in my life.

(Overall response: I tend to be allusive. But people are oftentimes ignorant of my allusions. :/)

A Train Ride (17 minutes)

17 minutes. That’s exactly how long it takes for you to commute from Bülowstr to Dahlem Dorf. Two minutes to go to Wittenberg Platz then fifteen minutes to go to Dahlem Dorf. Usually you spend the first two minutes staring outside the window or keeping your eyes on a meaningless ad, studying it so closely as if it is the most interesting object in the world. Don’t feel like eye contacts. Hate to be spoken to, hate it even more it should be people you actually know. Can’t we just pretend we don’t know each other? Don’t all Asian girls look the same to you?

You spend the following 15 minutes' ride staring at your iPod. That’s what you downloaded all the novels from the eBooks app for. The ride would be excruciatingly long if you happen to forget your iPod home. What should you do then? As much as you like observing people you prefer doing it in the dark. Sitting in the U Bahn you’ve got no vantage point to observe. They WILL feel your stare. Better scenario, they avoid eye contacts as well by looking into (not reading) this book they are holding at hands— like reading Verlaine in the U Bahn? What blasphemy! Worse scenario, they—oftentimes slightly flirtatious young guys who feel too good about themselves—think you are interested and wink at you with the most charming smile they have. So what do you do then? Smiling back? But you are not that friendly a person, not with strangers. Maybe that’s why Berlin’s the perfect city for you. No hi to strangers. Of course sometimes you miss the “You are beautiful” coming from total strangers. Won’t happen in Berlin. But your anxiety takes over and of course you can do without such ego-boost.

So you keep on reading, sitting as still as a marble statue. One Platz comes after another and you always mix up the station names. Doesn’t matter. All you have to know is that the sunlight will suddenly bursts in one station before Dahlem Dorf and it would be time for you to put your iPod back to your purse, put on your scarf, check the time, getting ready to stand up and rush to the elevator before everybody else gets there.

And so it goes a perfect train ride. No eye contacts. No acquaintances and thereby no meaningless chitchat. Just you, and this perfect city of indifference, and the dirty melting snow on the pavement. 

Waking Up (5 minutes)

She can hear the water streaming beside her ears. Where am I? She slightly opens up her eyes and sees a blurry blue. It should be the sky. It should be incredibly sunny. For even through water the sunlight pierces her eyes a little bit. She smells flowers. Rosemary, lily, violet, flower of all kinds but as she inhales the water comes to her nostrils. She cannot breathe. She is drowning. Suddenly all those memories come vivid: her father was killed by the love of her life and she went frenzy. She dressed herself up with flowers and ran to this small stream in the woods. She knelt down, saw her pale delicate face for the last time and sank into water. So that was what happened before her sanity got woken up. But she shall fall into the eternal sleep again.


(I was a bit disappointed that only Lilith picked up my allusion to Ophelia. But anyways.)

Cemetery Cat in Pére Lachaise (10 minutes)

(This is a bad one. I couldn't concentrate on or properly finish my writing for people were talking really loud in the Café. But I will put it here for the sake of the no embellishment policy.)

She has been wandering about the cemetery for a long long time. She doesn’t even recall when she first got there. She just came, and liked it, and decided to stay. Her favorite grave is the one from Chopin, there are always fresh flowers laid upon the gravestone. Sometimes she just curls beside it, enjoying the sunshine. But when people walk by she always hides herself immediately with the speed of a flash—it’s almost like she just vanishes. The most beloved grave in the cemetery is the one of Oscar Wilde—which is her least favorite one. People just come and take pictures, kiss the gravestone with thick lipstick or leave a note to express their love, but who’s going to read that? It’s just cheesy.  She likes the one from Marcel Proust far better, it’s not far away from the Oscar Wilde one but is totally the opposite: plain black, simple, not flashy at all. Usually people don’t notice her. But every now and then, some more observant ones would catch her blazing eyes. It happens more when it’s getting dark, when the cemetery is getting closed and people are getting asked to leave by the cemetery guards.

Sky (5 minutes)

I just realized I don’t see that much sky back in Taipei. Is it because it hides itself behind the skyscrapers or I just took it for granted and did not pay much attention? The only piece of sky I remember is the one above The Royal Palm Boulevard from my old university. It is summer. It is azure blue, embroidered with white clouds, but not too many since it is sunny. The sunshine is so strong that I either have to wear sunglasses not to end up in minor bicycle-related accidents, or like every other girl does, holding a umbrella one hand while biking. It surely looks like performing stunts, and as a freshman I used to awe at such a scene: girls biking while holding an umbrella, guys eating a sandwich while holding on to his bike with only one hand. One time I even spotted a guy enjoying his lunchbox with BOTH hands and kept on biking actually rather smoothly. Anyway, the blue blue sky above palm trees, people biking, this is the only piece of sky I remember and I am starting to miss it just now.

Happy Moment in Winter (15 minutes)

Happy moment in winter. Happy moment, winter. Winter winter winter we don’t really have winter. I spent the Chinese New Years Eve with the family from my father side. It was always excruciatingly boring. The TV shows for the New Year was boring and I just lay on bed wondering when I would finally feel sleepy.

I always woke up late on the first day of the New Year. The whole house smells like chicken noodle soup. Chicken noodle soup stewed for hours with Chinese mushroom. Grandpa was also by the kitchen table, already finished his chicken noodle soup and was talking to Dad, drinking warm Sake. Dad saw me coming in and suddenly talked to me in English—he always wanted to show off his English in front of the family and maybe intended to practice it as well—for ever since he retired from this American company and stopped flying around attending conferences from all over the world he didn’t get to speak much English anymore.

Dad asked theatrically “you have a good night’s sleep?” he thought speaking really fast would make him sound smarter and more native-speaker-like. I thought, here you go again and mumbled something like “it was ok. The firecrackers and the screaming kids woke me up very early but I managed to fall asleep again anyways.” Grandpa chuckled a little bit saying he couldn’t understand us at all. Dad was looking proud. 

Grandma came out from the kitchen with my portion of chicken soup. She wasn’t particularly fond of me but she made it for me anyways, though it was well past breakfast time. Grandpa asked if I want to add some Sake to the noodle soup: it goes extremely well and your grandma brewed the Sake herself.  “Say when.” I saw he pouring the purple-ish Sake into my steaming noodle soup. The soup changed its color from light yellow to dark brown. 

Finally I said “when.” “So much Sake! You sure know what the good stuff is!” He was delighted. I made my first sip of the soup. “Is it good?” “Divine with the Sake!” said I. Grandpa was really glad. Dad was smiling as well. “Be careful not to get yourself drunk, Peggy” said he.

(a failed attempt to) focus on the content of consciousness

A mere excerpt from an exercise in Snow's Performance Studies seminar. By the way, thrilled to have him back. He is a real artist.

So I am imaging me back to Taiwan. It’s also winter but it’s 18 ºC. It’s not cold at all. My boots become way too warm and I can feel my feet sweating. I can smell the steaming food from the street vendors. It smells like noodle soup. People are talking rapidly in mandarin with Taiwanese accent, which I haven’t heard of for a really, really long time. I kept on strolling in the Royal Palm Avenue in my ala mater. The sunlight’s pleasant. I can feel my back warming up. And the greenness in the park cheers me up a little bit. There aren’t too many students on the way cause most of them are attending classes. I’m feeling like a tourist in such a familiar scene. I even tried to reach for my camera and realize I don’t have it with me. My finger feels the temperature. Not cold. Not cold at all. 


(The below is Carolina's feedback. I remember afterwards it was the first time I ever tried to strike a conversation with people from my program since the winter semester 2010. I was depressed and did not feel like getting to know new people, as if it were to banish the old memories of my year as an exchange student. After this exercise, somehow, I felt a connection between me and this Columbian girl.)

"Being a foreigner. Here, in Berlin, and there at home. You don’t belong anywhere anymore because now you are here and not there. And when you go back there, you will be from here. Not from there anymore. The Taiwanese accent won’t seem as familiar as the 41 Ring Bahn. This keyboard is making my fingers feel heavy, as your finger felt the temperature. They are heavy because there are too many characters in each keyboard.  I am a foreigner. Here. In you computer. There, at home. Once we have chosen to leave we can’t return anymore. Seeing snow for the first time. Writing on a Taiwanese computer. MacBook in Mandarin. There is no sunlight here and there’s nothing we can do about it. Our bodies will grow old waiting for it to come back. When it does, we will already have become foreigners for it. Foreigners of the Sun. By the way, what a soft keyboard!"