Saturday, August 25, 2007
Friday, August 24, 2007
2 weeks in
And so we are coming to the end of week 2 in the big brother house- make that big brother republic. The list of off limits sites is extending gradually, but nothing orwellian or excessively prohibitive.
So 2 weeks in and 102 to go, to reach my personal target of being in an established career of some kind. Oh how Ill look back at this little entry and laugh.
There's a woman in the next block. I think a floor lower than us, but not much more than that because I can see into one corner of one of her apartment rooms. No no, nothing like that. The corner of the room that is presented to my vista as I wash up is bare, sparsely furnished- looks kind of functional fr some reason that I cannot put my finger on. Perhaps the unfinished wood which makes up the back of a type of furniture unit, that is pressed up against the window, is giving the utilitarian feeling- but I guess most furniture looks like that from the back. It's just that usually the back of a cupboard or dresser or shelving unit has no audience other than extreme proximity to an opaque and oppressive wall. It seems strange that I am allowed to witness the nudity of the unit from my vantage point- like being backstage during a performance and seing the plywood and nails that constitute the illusion of a rolling scene or stormy sea at a theatre production. But does not seem strange for long. Why should you care who sees the back of your unit, when you are three or four floors up, and a gulf of at least 30 feet separates your apartment from another across the little mock roads that snake around the condominium? You see, the proximity of others is completely forgotten somehow when you are dimly aware that you are living high up in the air. But I digress. The perceived chink through which I witness the utilitarian room- at least utilitarian unit (should I be specific and say the utilitarian looking back of the possibly ornate and frivilous fronted cabinet?) and its accompanying room is like a little window into someone elses life- I mean their entire life and not just their life in that room. Sensing a small old woman doing something I am unable to fathom in one corner of a room, the rest of which is hidden from my view, allows my mind to ticker away for hours on the very nature of her existence, of her struggles, her aims and ambitions, of her daily routines and customs that in her mind pertain to the realisation of those dreams... Perhaps there is a reason that she wears small plastic disposable gloves whenever she is in (that corner of) that room, a reason for her economic refinement in selecting a bare floor and undecorated walls. Perhaps. The human mind, well my one at least is not entirely comfortable settling for an explanation devoid of intruige or some possibility of unknowable mysticism. I think the gloves mean something. I am sure the room and its decoration are also a key.
And I'm happiest leaving it there and knowing no more- at the moment the possibilities are boundless and the imagination limitless. She remains a mystic and a yogi to me, wrapped in ritual, ceremony and behaviour from another world altogether. And now to the dishes.
So 2 weeks in and 102 to go, to reach my personal target of being in an established career of some kind. Oh how Ill look back at this little entry and laugh.
There's a woman in the next block. I think a floor lower than us, but not much more than that because I can see into one corner of one of her apartment rooms. No no, nothing like that. The corner of the room that is presented to my vista as I wash up is bare, sparsely furnished- looks kind of functional fr some reason that I cannot put my finger on. Perhaps the unfinished wood which makes up the back of a type of furniture unit, that is pressed up against the window, is giving the utilitarian feeling- but I guess most furniture looks like that from the back. It's just that usually the back of a cupboard or dresser or shelving unit has no audience other than extreme proximity to an opaque and oppressive wall. It seems strange that I am allowed to witness the nudity of the unit from my vantage point- like being backstage during a performance and seing the plywood and nails that constitute the illusion of a rolling scene or stormy sea at a theatre production. But does not seem strange for long. Why should you care who sees the back of your unit, when you are three or four floors up, and a gulf of at least 30 feet separates your apartment from another across the little mock roads that snake around the condominium? You see, the proximity of others is completely forgotten somehow when you are dimly aware that you are living high up in the air. But I digress. The perceived chink through which I witness the utilitarian room- at least utilitarian unit (should I be specific and say the utilitarian looking back of the possibly ornate and frivilous fronted cabinet?) and its accompanying room is like a little window into someone elses life- I mean their entire life and not just their life in that room. Sensing a small old woman doing something I am unable to fathom in one corner of a room, the rest of which is hidden from my view, allows my mind to ticker away for hours on the very nature of her existence, of her struggles, her aims and ambitions, of her daily routines and customs that in her mind pertain to the realisation of those dreams... Perhaps there is a reason that she wears small plastic disposable gloves whenever she is in (that corner of) that room, a reason for her economic refinement in selecting a bare floor and undecorated walls. Perhaps. The human mind, well my one at least is not entirely comfortable settling for an explanation devoid of intruige or some possibility of unknowable mysticism. I think the gloves mean something. I am sure the room and its decoration are also a key.
And I'm happiest leaving it there and knowing no more- at the moment the possibilities are boundless and the imagination limitless. She remains a mystic and a yogi to me, wrapped in ritual, ceremony and behaviour from another world altogether. And now to the dishes.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
We All know about deterioration. We all know about breakdown- of friendship, of communication... I am all too familiar with the breakdown of human interaction - but what about fundamental breakdown. The There is a mathematical formula that can predict the deterioration of a nuclear substance over time- indeed the decomposition rate of a particular isotope forms the basis of our most accurate timepiece- the atomic clock. So what measures musical the deterioration from Beatles (1985) through Electro (1984-1988) via Velvet Underground and The FaithHealers, to Beltram (arguably not deterioration) and back to Led Zepellin (more a transgression...). Its an organic evolution, which by defenition is a deterioration or evolution (depending on your slanted mind/eyes)... could somebody please send me the formula...am i growing or shrinking, erroding, washing away in my own floods of doubt, of self criticism, of fear... or growing stronger? Evolving....
Just how many pictures of the Colonel does it take to sell a chicken burger? The neon of this pedestrian street near Peoples Square is actually quite an attraction, and on one evening I saw several locals rocking up to capture the spectacle on their shiny new cameras. Whether it was this KFC/Pasta city/others ensemble, or the more popular giant coke bottle down the road (complete with white neon fizz that oozed forth as you watched- well, was lit white periodically to represent the phallic spurt of an unleashed bottle) the shining gallery of all that is derided as corporate in the west was actually a big attraction to those of the east. I was even seduced by the spectacle, swept up by the emotion of a crowd of happy faces in awe of the bright and radiant light show that seemed more harmless and gay, less a corporate and oppressive call to consume.
Monday, August 20, 2007
A very strange thing happened today...
...as I was lying on the floor in the lounge I noticed that my body had begun secreting a very fine oily substance- not quite a liquid, but certainly not a gas or solid. I had never noticed it before, but was definitely aware of something as I lay there. the sun streamed in through the large window that faces the city, and I thought I might have been sweating. However, in the same way that you accept that if you sit in a hot bath your forehead will pirspire with small droplets of salty sweat, so I accepted that secreting something oily was a rational thing for my body to do as I lay on the floor of a luxury apartment in a strange city. I didn't have anyone to tell about it, so I just lay there for a bit, thinking about the chores that were ahead of me for the rest of the day. I had made good progress with cleaning the floors, and polishing the surfaces- a task which had left me feeling tremendously satisfied upon completion- perhaps because it was the first real task I had completed in around six weeks. Everything else in that time had been compromised in some way due to the fact that I was living out of a suitcase and so nothing that I had executed felt like it had any permanence or lasting effect. All had been transitory and ethereal until the polishing. Now the gleaming surfaces- my gleaming surfaces- provided concrete evidence of a very real sense of completion. As such I looked forward to sweeping the three flights of mahogany stairs, but only after a new cup of coffee. My thoughts drifted to the other two people who could well have been lying down- or producing oily myrrh- at this time in their respective corners of the world- one in New York and the other in London. And of course of the imlpications of eternal life that the reality of my secretions behest.
Welcome, One and All
Arrived in Shanghai one week ago, more or less. Shanghai is a very strange place, says the man who has lived in London, Birmingham, Sao Paulo and Pattaya (Thailand). For one it's very clean, (don't believe the hype) and another thing the people are charming. Odd, fascinating, fascinated and charming...
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