An archive of writing composed during my creative writing workshop from 2010 to 2012. Now also contains anglophone writings I composed alone.
"Only in the mother tongue can one speak one’s truth. In a foreign tongue the poet lies."-- Paul Celan
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 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 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. 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.
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?
