How one lives

Yesterday I got an interesting comment from Donna, "Why are you so high? Are you on something?" Translated by herself, "I am not used to be around you like this!" Translated by herself, "you are not normally so happy."

Should I take that as an compliment?

I think one easily indulged oneself into something, some mood, some imagination. At the moment, for me, the most primary issue for living is: to indulge, or not to. Yet it's easy, isn't it? One got stock, for better or worse. Then one started thinking, which nurtured so many comedies. To stop that requires understanding, which means knowledge of the situation one gets stocked in.

And that doesn't come easily. Although indulgence helps not.

Mentors help, though. I am lucky to have some around.

R.E.S.P.E.C.T

My beloved readers, if there is any left.

It has been such a long time since I contributed any words last time in this blog. My absence does have good excuse. That would be my responsibility for those who read. I write out of the desire to share, yet it is never a good idea sharing negative emotions, not to mention that emotions are clich?. For all these time, I was trying not to spreading my hatred and confusion onto this space so that you would be tainted not.
But pain is as strong as the call for piss, "one can't hold it long." Only that you need to find the right place to do that. Is this the right place to do that? I don't know. When violating a public sphere one wonders: will I get the look, the despising look from others?

I just finished a chat with kid, and although she said that was a nice chat in the end, I could only agree that to be an ok chat. How nice a chat could be when the two parties in it were both stirred up by each others frustration and sense of deprivation? Unless she was referring to that fact that we perfectly sharing that damaging feelings.

For long, we've wanted to go abroad. Correct, I wanted to live abroad. But why?

"Out of the blackest part of my soul, across the zebra striping of my mind, surges this desire to be suddenly white. I wish to be acknowledged not as black but as white...Who but a white woman can do this for me? By loving me she proves that I am worthy of white love. I am loved like a white man...I marry white culture, white beauty, white whiteness. When my restless hands caress those white breasts, they grasp white civilisation and dignity and make them mine."

I didn't read her the quote, which would embarrass me pretty much. Yet I embarrass myself everyday of my adult life, so it's only a matter of whether giving others the opportunity to do that or not.

Go ahead, it's only part of me.

No, it's not that I desire the love of a white woman. The word "love" could not be insulted in this way anyway. But it's a pretty nice way to put it.

Why do we want to live abroad? At this point we should not take personal issues into consideration. One have difficulties in life regardless of the location one's in, you simply overcome it or be overwhelmed by it. That's meaningless for analysis. Useful factors for analysis, if from personal perspective, should at least refer to general situation.

We have one assumption: if Taiwanese could choose, they would wish otherwise. Translation, not Taiwanese. It's hard to explain. Never had we felt that depressed before coming back to Taiwan. But what's there in London better than Taipei? The right to piss on the street, or the rights to insult foreigners on the street?

No, it's not that. It's the sense of unfairness.

Why can't I say, as my Portuguese friend did, that my language is the most beautiful one in the world, from which Taiwan was named "Formosa"?
Why do not the people of the rest of the world need to learn my language to survive, to be not punished since their teenage, to be accepted in their own family, the be in favour of their parents?
Why do not they pay triple amount of money just to get a post-graduate degree from universities of my nation?

That might happen, given how humorous and cold-blood history has always been. When China comes into power and the world will have to listen.
That might happen, when fascism becomes visible.
That might happne, with countless heartache and bloodshed.

And I, now living on my parents' blood and breathe, whining while I can be part of the oppressing project that globalising the world into a white English one.

But what do I whine for? Oh, come on, you heard what Radio Head sang.

"I don't care if it hurts, I wanna have control
I want a perfect body, I want a perfect soul
I want you to notice, when I'm not around
You're so fucking special
I wish I was special"

Ah, no, I wish I was NORMAL. Don't blame them, they are British.

"What it's like to live in fear. That's how it feels to be a slave."

All quotations are in English, you sort it out.

Placed upon the road

It has been too long that I wait for the trip to start. So long that one gets tired, enthusiasm worn down, and fervor chilled. Nevertheless, emotion is calmed and one interestingly regains the enjoyment of waiting. Waiting to see what's on the road.
The condition of my right arm is gradually improved, although unable to be fully straighten or bent. So the last few days before launching into my journey were spent in resting, staying still, overcoming the difficulties of exerting the basic bodily functions.
When I met kid for the first time, she said one thing that completely freaked me out. "Try as you may, the one will have you." Scary, isn't it? (Another friend asked me years later: do you believe in fate? Well……) But in the past few days I started to think: maybe it is true. You know what it is gonna be, just can't admit it.
But that doesn't mean that I knew the accident that injured my arm was foreseeable to me.
What I meant was — I know what I was longing for even before my condition put me in situation allows me nothing else. All of a sudden most of the daily activities were forbidden, only putting ice on the injured part, resting. Can't type the computer, can't cook, can't open the door, and can't dress up. All there is are simply sitting, waiting, focusing on the pain and trying to ease it. At times like this strange feelings about my life emerge. What was I doing? Were what I did really meaningful? The chat, the wondering, the anxiety, the plotting and the despondency, the fucking about; none of these seem to have any meaning now. Not necessary for sure.
So, what now?
I've been thinking about these years. Come and go one place after another. Although not yet climb the highest mountain or run through the field, I still haven't found what I am looking for. Only memories of faces and streets urge me to go on.
In these few days of not able to go anywhere, I indulged myself in basic pleasure of reading, watching movies on TV, and eating. What's funny was that I felt no sense of guilt, as if that was my life. Yes, I know in Room Six Chekhov denounced people leading such life as sluggards; my situation is actually far from that of those in real pain, at the edge of survival. Yes, from this perspective I should at least have a slight sense of guilt. But no. I indulged what I left out in daily lives. The best I could be reproached was my stupidity, stupidity in arranging my daily lives.
For long I've felt that life has turned into still water. But when forced to be still, hope vaguely reveals itself in calmness.