She says
31/12/2009
If no words come before midnight, I’ll understand. If, however, there is much to hope and expect, I’ll be there, our usual place, waiting. Now, time for galleries and outings. See you (I’ll be happy), or see you not (I’ll be sad).
Quote of the day
31/12/2009

Auld Lang Syne
(The version by Mairi Campbell & Dave Francis)
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought de mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
For auld lang syne?
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We’ll tak a cup o kindness yet
For auld lang syne?
And surely ye’ll be your pint-stowp,
And surely I’ll be mine,
And we’ll tak a cup o kindness yet,
For auld lang syne
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We’ll tak a cup o kindness yet
For auld lang syne?
We twa hae run aboot n the braes
And pou’d the gowans fine.
And we’ve wandered many a weary fit,
Sin’ auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We’ll tak a cup o kindness yet
For auld lang syne?
We twa hae paidl’d in the burn,
Frae morning sun till dine,
But the seas between us braid hae roared
Sin’ auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We’ll tak a cup o kindness yet
For auld lang syne?
Sherlock Holmes
31/12/2009
Irene Adler: Why are you always so suspicious?
Sherlock Holmes: Do you want me to list the reasons chronologically or alphabetically?
– from Sherlock Holmes (2009) On the left is a ‘teaser poster’, which I like more than the official ones.
Other posts related to films can be found here.
Quote of the day
30/12/2009

What are your breakfast preferences?
“Personal experience and anecdotal evidence suggest that this habit of reversion to a trough of one’s own is typical. Even with the world’s market at their command, most people restrict their usual menus and demand the same dishes over and over again. In the prosperous West, this is particularly true for breakfast, a meal which seems to be enhanced, for most of the people who eat it, by the comfort of predictability: cereal every day; in some cases, the same cereal every day. Those who favor eggs will often choose to have them cooked in the same way every day. Even the partisans of fried eggs divided into those who like them viscous — “easy” in American restaurant lingo — and those who like them congealed. There are unremittingly ichthyophagous breakfasters; others who will have bacon every day but never sausages and vice versa. The kind of fruit preserved or the density with which its peel is shredded or the proportions in which it is combined with sugar become matters of inflexible dogma and unvarying practice.”
| — | Felipe Fernandez-Armesto’s Near A Thousand Tables: A History of Food (p. 132) |
New Year’s Eve
27/12/2009
–This poem is co-written by Tammy Ho and Jeff Zroback.
![]()
I could have worn green knowing you hated blue
but instead I chose red because you hate it too.
Tonight I sipped sherry when you were around
but I drank scotch when you couldn’t be found.
Predictably you finished your mussels and veal
but failed to notice I picked at my meal.
In the car home, you chose rock
but if I’d been driving, it would have been talk.
In bed, I read a book sure to impress
but once you were out, I watched people undress.
On nights with me, you so quickly tire
but if you were with Eve, you’d be up by the fire.
It’s Christmas — so what?
24/12/2009
Mrs Claus slept with the Easter Bunny,![]()
had her stocking stuffed,
found chocolate eggs in her ovarian tubes.
So what?
The yuletide tables are set –
Presents must be delivered,
elves fed.
Santa must still limp forward on his candy cane,
drive his drunken, red nose reindeer.
Eat his stale cookies.
my etcetera
22/12/2009
A song to accompany this post (Katie Melua’s “Nine Million Bicycles”)
Read a short story by James Bent, “Killing Memories“, with a character inspired by these photographs. Gillian Sze likes one of these, too. Thank you.



Courtesy of JZ![]()
Similar post(s):
Christmas songs
22/12/2009
On the first day of December, my friend Oscar sang me this Christmas song. While I listen to it often, The Raveonettes’s “Christmas Song” is also on my player (please click below). You can hear more classics and new holiday tunes here, through NPR.
Christmas Song
All the lights are coming on now
How I wish that it would snow now
I don’t feel like going home now
I wish that I could stay
All the trees are on display now
and its cold now
I don’t feel like going home now
I wish that I could stay
I wish that I could walk
I wish that I could walk
you home
All the lights are coming on now
How I wish that it would snow now
I don’t feel like going home now
I wish that I could stay
Santas coming to town
with sequins in his hair
Santas coming to town
with sequins in his hair
Quote of the day
22/12/2009
Françoise Hardy’s “Tous les garçons et les filles”
Or watch this very lovely video.
All the Boys and Girls
all boys and girls my age
walk the streets in pairs
all boys and girls my age
know well what it means to be happy
and eye to eye and hand in hand
they will love it without fear of tomorrow
yes but I am alone in the streets, the lost soul
yes but I go alone, because nobody loves me
my days as my nights
are similar in all respects
joyless and full of trouble
no murmur “I love you” to my ear
all boys and girls my age
are all future plans
all boys and girls my age
know very well what love means
and eye to eye and hand in hand
they will love it without fear of tomorrow
yes but I am alone in the streets, the lost soul
yes but I go alone, because nobody loves me
my days as my nights
are similar in all respects
joyless and full of trouble
oh! So for me when the sun shines?
as boys and girls my age
I soon would know what love is?
as boys and girls my age
I wonder when the day comes
where the eyes in his eyes and his hand in his hand
I heart happy without fear of tomorrow
the day I no longer have any of the lost soul
the day when I myself someone who loves me
Quote of the day
21/12/2009

My favourite snow song. Fleet Foxes’s “White Winter Hymnal”
The Saatchi Gallery
19/12/2009
I first learnt about The Saatchi Gallery from Cora Kaplan’sVictoriana: Histories, Fictions, Criticisms (2007). In it, she discusses Paula Rego’s paintings inspired by Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre (1847). When I did more research on Rego, I noticed that she has had works showcased in the Saatchi Gallery. Since then, I have wanted to visit the place and today I finally had a chance. I was very impressed by the gallery: it was spacious, well-lit and the fact that there were no ropes or barriers in front of the pieces of artwork made it accommodating for visitors to look at them very closely. Also, the works in the current exhibition at the gallery, “Abstract America: New Painting and Sculpture“, were largely interesting. Compared to the Frieze art fair that we went to in October, the quality was very impressive. At Frieze, I was unable to find more than a handful of works which I considered to be engaging. However, at Saatchi, I was captivated by a good percentage of the pieces. Below you will find some pictures of my favourites. The descriptions are from the “Picture by Picture Guide” (£1.5), produced for the exhibit. (You can also see some photographs I took today in an album titled “Pseudo art” here.)
Matt Johnson’s “The Pianist (after Robert J. Lang)”, 2005 Gallery 5
Description: “Matt Johnson’s sculptures delightfully explore the paradox of visual forms through unorthodox and surprising materials. The Pianist (After Robert J. Lang) pays tribute to the American physicist and master origami artist who has astounded with his mathematically complex objects crafted from creased paper. Rendered life-sized, Johnson’s giant origami masterpiece is made from one 50 foot piece of trap folded into the shape of a concern piano player, humorously honouring genuis with floppy monumentality. Johnson’s choice of blue wrapping is a clever reference to Yves Klein — whose signature international Klein Blue (also a scientific marvel) is synonymous with sublimation and glamour — theatrically elevating his wonky musician to iconic design status.”
Matt Johnson’s “Malus Sieversii”, 2008 Gallery 6
Description: “Titled after the very first species of apple from which all other ‘forbidden fruit’ has evolved, Johnson’s Malus Sieversii is a life sized wooden carving of the fruit most associated with computers and record labels. Within its mostly eaten flesh, Johnson’s etched a miniature Escher-esque staircase, winding endlessly up and down the core. Drawing on both religious and scientific references, Johnson’s hand-crafted emblem of original sin humbly posses as a microcosm of sublime wonder and contemplation.”
Ryan Johnson’s “Watchman”, 2008 Gallery 6
Description: “Using fiction as a departure point into making, this series of Ryan Johnson’s work revolves around the literary archetype of the Watchman: the ever-lurking ghostly observer, lonesome figure of security and surveillance. Occupying an uneasy space between dreamscape and the material world, Johnson’s figure is a haunting effigy, a character reduced to the tools of his trade. With cog-like guts formed from giant key rings and a distorted clock for a face, he’s more machine than man, wearied from unwavering routine, anchored to his post in a bucket of cement.”
Ryan Johnson’s “Sentinel (Please Hold)”, 2008 Gallery 6
Description: “Through his playful use of materials, Johnson’s work creates a theatrical tension between ’stuff’ and its implied function: clock faces stand in for people faces, bandages become noblesse armour, and steel rods protrude painfully as arms and legs; his battered crafty aesthetic giving all the appearance of the walking wounded. Sentinel (Please Hold) sculpts a cruel picture of ineffectuality and obsolescence. Comically rendered with the tell-tale ravages of age, Johnson’s veteran teeters on peg-leg and gout foot, his guts blown out, and arm replaced by a fishing rod-like prosthetic. Relegated to desk duty, even answering the phone becomes a mission impossible, his body covered by hundreds of unanswered messages.”
Guerra de la Paz’s “Nine”, 2007 Gallery 7
Description: “Cuban born American artists Alain Guerra and Neraldo de la Paz are the collaborative duo Guerra de la Paz. Originally sourcing their materials from the waste bins of second-hand goods shipping companies in Miami’s Little Haiti, Guerra De La Paz make their sculptures from the discarded items of daily life. Viewing their practice as a kind of ‘archaeology’, their work engages with the history inherent in common debris and its possibility for recycled usage. In Nine, a giant mound of clothing heaps with strata of prom dresses, Christmas jumpers, and embarrassing yesteryear fads, bearing down with the weight of a civilisation and its disowned memories. Beneath the fringes of the hulking mass can be seen the feet of nine people supporting the load, a testimony to the strength and value of community.”
Kristen Stoltmann’s “Spray Bush”, 2007 Gallery 9
Description: “This ethos of vaginal power and politics [referring to another piece of work] is similarly echoed in Stoltmann’s photographs. In Spray Bush, stoltmann crops her figure, placing minge up front and centre: graffiti coated with a layer of neon pink her sex is simultaneously transformed into both an audacious beacon and hazard sign. Her Listen series collages seashells into pornographic crotch shots reminiscent of Corbet’s The Origin of the World, reinforcing the idea of feminine alignment with nature, creation, and spirituality.”
Stephen G. Rhodes’s “Ssspecific Object”, 2006 Gallery 9
Description: “Through his sculptures and installations Stephen G. Rhodes engages with both art historical and American mythology to approach narrative through making. In Ssspecific Object, Rhodes comically merges these two interests with the suggestion of a minimalist cube devoured by a giant snake; its title referring to Donald Judd’s critical writings and its awkward horizontal composition reinforcing its creepy otherness. Made from rubber and stretched to capacity, Rhodes’s serpent poses as a discriminate consumer: a viper critic devouring the bulk feast of modernism.”
Peter Coffin’s “Untitled (Spiral Staircase)”, 2007 Gallery 10
Description: “Coffin’s Untitled (Spiral Staircase) takes the idea of a simple architectural fitting to an absurd extreme. Reminiscent of Escher’s Infinite Staircase, Coffin’s winding steps are moulded into a circle, inexhaustibly twisting in impossible logic made real. By remodelling the steps, Coffin strips the staircase of its function, turning a thing which is normally engaged with physicality into a dizzying conceptual game. Through his humorous constructions, Coffin bridges art history and everyday experience, subverting the preconceptions of both.”
Amy Sillman’s “Bed”, 2006 Gallery 11
Description: “In Bed, Amy Sillman’s intuitive process is used to convey both loose narrative and psychological uncertainty. With her sumptuous pastel tones tinged with a dirty, dusky pallor, Sillman’s composition doubles as abstract painting and the ambient architecture of a room. Overlaying her swiping brush marks with delicate lines and precise hard edged shapes, Sillman illustrates two figures huddled in a bed, creepily embraced by a third ghostly presence hovering above. Bed’s pink tones and ephemeral description offer a distinctly feminine sight to sexuality, conveying an intimacy as a totality of self: where carnality and emotional fragility are entwined as apprehensive gesture.”
Jacob Hashimoto’s “Continent”, 2007 Gallery 12
Description: “Jacob Hashimoto uses traditional kite-making techniques and forms to construct his three dimensional wall works. Existing as neither sculpture nor painting, Hashimoto’s compositions delicately float before the eye, mounted on an intricate network of interlaced nylon thread suspended from the wall by a line of pegs at both top and bottom. Tied to this support are hundreds of swatches of rice paper and bamboo slivers — collaged or painted with complex designs — dangling in abstracted motifs. Through this unique process Hashimoto’s works convey an ephemeral wonder, entrancing the viewer with their continuously shifting illusion of light, space, motion, and sense of flight.”
Similar post(s) can be found in the category “Art“
Avatar
19/12/2009
Last night, we went to watch James Cameron’s Avatar in 3D. More than a decade after Titanic, Cameron’s long-awaited follow-up is now in theatres.
The hype suggested that it would be a giant leap for film-making (a la Matrix). While I don’t think that this film will revolutionise the art form, it does look great. Cameron’s vision of the world of Pandora is impressive (e.g. the neon plants, the floating islands and the exotic animals), and the 3D is generally used subtly and convincingly. Some 3D movies attempt to exploit the technology by having over-the-top sequences in which things come out of the screen to startle the audience. For the most part, Cameron resists this temptation; instead, the 3D is used to highlight and accentuate the scenes.
The story, on the other hand, is another matter. The film is set on the planet of Pandora sometime in the future. The planet is inhabited by some blue-skinned and tall humanoids called the na’vi, who live a simple hunter-gatherer existence. Their lifestyle, however, is under threat from an occupying human force interested in extracting an important resource with the sarcastic named ‘unobtainium’. The human force is half-corporation and half-military force, but they also run a small scientific project for public relations. In the project, humans go into electronic pods where they can manipulate avatars which look like the na’vi. The project is an attempt to encourage better relations between the two species. The hero, Jake, is a crippled former marine who has been brought into the project to replace his dead twin brother. Jake is drafted by the corporation to spy on the na’vi, whose village is directly above the largest deposit of unobtainium on the planet. However, when Jake encounters the na’vi, he begins to sympathise with their cause and admire their way of life, which emphasize the union of all living things. Sound complicated? It’s not. Think Dances with Wolves in space and you pretty much have the idea.
After the humans destroy the na’vi’s homeland, Jake joins their side to fight the human occupiers. Beyond the easy ecological messages and overt references to the American war on terror, the film also languishes in other cliches. First of all, the portrayal of the na’vi is one which is stereotypical and one-dimensional. They are portrayed as in touch with nature. However, they are still primitive when compared to the ‘civilized’ humans. They are also presented as good stewards of nature, a slightly dated view of native tribes throughout the world. It turns out that humans generally are prone to environmental destruction, despite what some liberal academics have wanted to believe about the non-European inhabitants of the world. Also, the na’vi are ultimately presented as incapable of defending themselves from the superior human attack. Jake, a white man and a disabled one at that, leads their counter attack; the superiority of colonialism is clearly present. While the film criticises the brutality of the military force and the greed of the corporation, the inherit idea that the natives would require external help to save themselves is borderline offensive.
One point that I did admire is a certain thematic consistency that appears throughout the work. This is the idea of interconnectivity. First of all, Jake and the scientists connect with their avatars. Likewise, the na’vi are capable, through threads which emanate from their hair, to connect with elements in nature such as animals and plants. This is part of a larger kind of organic internet which link up all the living beings on the planet. Even the humans, who are presented as completely detached from the interconnectivity of Pandora, also plug into their war machines to become monstrous metallic robots.
Is Avatar worth the money? Yes. Just connect to the beautiful vision without thinking too much about what you are watching. (And the actor (Sam Worthington) who plays Jake is such a hunk; he reminds me of someone I adore.)
Similar post(s) can be found in the category “Films“
Confession
15/12/2009
![]()
My reading of Czech poet František Halas’s “Confession”. This is, again, for you, the coarse and noble one. The text is here.
Similar post(s):
Announcements
14/12/2009

1) Cha editors in The New Yorker (very marginally). A photograph of T by J, to be accurate.
Editor Didi invited writers previously published by GOSS183::CASA Menendez to participate in this project. My short story, “Small company seeks new blood to blacken things” was published in the July 2008 issue of Mipoesias, one of Didi’s literary journals. You can download the PDF here; my story can be found on pp. 74-80.
3) New cup of fine tea. Read an analysis (co-written with Jeff) of Donna Pucciani’s “Lunar Eclipse”, our first piece in the new “Lost Teas” section.
4) My Twitter account is now closed — I am sorry I did not have a chance to say goodbye to those who were on my list. I want to start things anew, here. Please also feel free to follow @asiancha, managed by Cha editorial team.
5) Shows of London’s meeting “Forgetting in Visual Form” is today.
Marvellous banality
12/12/2009

You’re splattered ink on paper,
all smudges and blots.
More fun than scissor-ed silhouettes.
I look at you, my creature of chance:
not a flying bat, not a winged devil,
not a skeleton wearing a fancy hat.
What are you? Even additional brushstrokes
cannot make you whole.
You take shape in the clouds, too.
Floating, you are gazed at, subliminal.
Perceiving phenomena in you as you drift by
is no more or less scientific than reading palms.
Whims are laws. The next instance I look,
you disappear into another cunning cloud.
You are now a cow – oh wait – a spear.
You may be fata morgana. Nature
and you combined to fool me. You appear far,
far above this journeying lass, seeking
a notion of home. From a mysterious point
in the same country, your hot layers of words
reflected and refracted in sun’s grace.
I see you: So you are real.
But when this traveller reaches her destination,
she finds nothing there. The image consumed
by expectations; and the sky finally clears.
Wilde vs. Dickens
10/12/2009
On the subject of ’stars’ (first appearance in English in c825):
Oscar Wilde: “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” (from Lady Windermere’s Fan, Act III, 1892)
Charles Dickens: “And then I looked at the stars, and considered how awful it would be for a man to turn his face up to them as he froze to death, and see no help or pity in all the glittering multitude.” (from Great Expectations, 7.43, 1860-61)
Who is wiser?
“The argument” — recordings by Jeff, Reid, Kristine, Kaolin, Blair, Surajit, Sam, Jakub, Robert, Ankur, Cyril new – song version, Morgan new, Arthur new and an anonymous contributor.- “Your silhouette is blasphemous” — stunning recording by Joan.
- “The Christmas song” — recording by Oscar.
Isn’t this blog pampered? I am so so so grateful to have these lovely voices on my blog; I listen to them again and again. More to come.
Catherine Candano’s “Exercise: Unlearning “Heart”” [Read the poem here]
(First published in issue #7 of Cha)

The Chinese character “Heart” is a relatively ’simple’ character: ‘a sparse picture / of the heart’ (L7-L8). “Love” is much more complicated: it has thirteen strokes. Because of this, ‘Chinese taught their young to write out “heart” / first, before they learnt the harder one, “love”‘ (L9-L10). Two things about the Chinese are implied here. First, they choose only to teach certain characters to the young people. “Heart” and “Love” are appropriate. (“Hate”, I think, is probably not.) Second, they follow steps: we don’t learn to run before we learn to walk (or crawl).
For those who do not know Chinese: in the character “Love” (see above), “Heart” sits in the middle, compressed but secure. The meaning is unambiguous: to love you must have a heart. And this organ cannot be placed randomly: it must be put right in the centre. See, the Chinese writing system is mostly rational and iconic. (Note, however, that in simplified Chinese, “Heart” is taken out from “Love”. This is one of the reasons why I think the simplified writing system is inferior. It tells you that “Love” does not need a “Heart”.)
But Candano’s poem is not only about calligraphy. It is also about the memories of ‘First Aunt’ and the calligraphy lessons she gave. In the first stanza, we are offered abundant information about these lessons: they took place in the afternoon, the persona was sat on a big chair (perhaps the chair was big because she was small), the cup that held the ink was ‘chipped’ (L5), the pen was made of rabbit’s hair (L6). In the second stanza, we are told that the persona was learning to write out “Heart”, as a prelude to the more difficult character, “Love”.
But that particular lesson is incomplete, halted. No actual writing ensues.
The stanza break between the second and third stanzas also divides the past and the present. In the third stanza, the persona continues in the present what she left behind in the past, that is, the writing out of “Heart”: ‘Rice paper is on the desk now, as thin as when / I first learnt to move brush along its lenghth’ (L13-L14 italics mine). What’s changed between the two scenes? While previously ‘First Aunt’ is supposedly physically present, now she is reduced to a benevolent voice: ‘I can hear her lesson’ (L16), ‘I still hear her’ (L26) and ‘(First child, repeat after me)’ (L29).
The persona, now alone but not lonely, confidently writes out the first two strokes of the ‘ebony character’ (L7). At the same time, she remembers First Aunt’s valuable lesson: ‘Too thin a line makes too thin a heart’ (L30). This line (both the calligraphy line and the line in the poem) embodies Buddhist simplicity and wisdom.
No doubt what character the persona will write next; and that will be a tribute to her beloved calligraphy teacher.
Phèdre at the National Theatre
26/08/2009

On Wednesday, we went to see Phèdre, a play originally written in rhymed alexandrine couplets in the seventeenth century by Jean Racine. The production at the National Theatre features Ted Hughes‘s free-verse translation of the French version. But the playwrights are not the stars of the show. Instead, the billing is clearly given to Dame Helen Mirren, whose face is prominently displayed on the bright red poster. Reading the cast list, I noticed that Mirren did not have an understudy, further suggesting that the play could not be performed without her. Finally, at the end of the play, Mirren got her own curtain call. Whether she deserved it was perhaps open to question.
The play is based on Greek mythology and has a complex plot of intrigue and betrayal. Although the story itself is very powerful and engaging, the production unfortunately failed to move me. There were countless dramatic scenes in which the characters deliver supposedly emotionally-charged speeches; however, to me they felt flat and left me underwhelmed. That is not to say the performances were necessarily bad. Mirren herself was fine, although this may have been a slight let-down considering the hype and expectations placed on her performance in the title role, the incestuous Phèdre who lusts after her stepson. The best piece of acting was given by Margaret Tyzack who played Oenone, Phèdre’s manipulative and self-serving nurse. The worst piece was Dominic Cooper’s stiff Hippolytus, a moping bore who spent much of the play posing like a depressed teenager. Because of this, when at the end of the play his tutor Théramène described Hippolytus’s allegedly heroic battle with a horned monster and his subsequent tragic death, it was completely unconvincing.
If I had to summarise my feelings about the play, I would say that I felt distanced throughout: emotionally, intellectually, and dramatically. I have already written about how I was unmoved by the forcedly passionate speeches delivered by the various actors and actresses. It was also hard to engage with the story as much of it is reported by characters instead of being performed. The minimalism of the stage, although well designed and suggestive of ancient Greece, added to this feeling of bareness. At times I felt that I was only watching snippets of a rehearsal.
Perhaps my expectations of the play were too high that it could not meet them. The things we anticipate most often disappoint. Or perhaps it has little to do with my expectations and Phèdre was simply a disappointment.
A cup of fine tea: Ouyang Yu’s “Bad English”
10/09/2009
Ouyang Yu’s “Bad English” [Read the poem here]
(First published in issue #4 of Cha)
As someone whose second language is English, this poem resonated with me. I suppose that some people may find it slightly offensive, as it appears to make fun of non-native English speakers. But is there something else underneath this gentle mocking? I think there is as this poem not only provides a commentary on the versatility of the English language, it also suggests a kind of fresh perspective that non-native speakers can bring to the language.
At the beginning of the poem, the main character, an aging professor teaching English in China, finds himself facing the realities of old age: ‘Teaching English in China / The old professor can’t help / The fact that his hair is turning grey’ (L1-L3). But it is not just old age that is changing his hair, but teaching in China itself. In the next stanza, the poem subtly begins to reveal what about his experience in the middle kingdom is aging him quickly: ‘An email letter leaves him / Upset for days without knowing why’ (L4-L5). There is a hint to the cause of his distress, and therefore his greying hair, in the slight strangeness of ‘an email letter’. More is unveiled when we learn the email ‘begins with this: ‘Dear Mr professor Richard” (L6). The email, obviously from a student, is almost comical in its poor English usage and is clearly a source of much frustration for the professor. The poem goes on: ‘Student papers are written in such a way / That how much effort goes into fixing them / He invariably sees a new English cropping up postgraduateswise’ (L7-L9).
In the fourth stanza, the poet quotes some examples of this ‘new English’ used by the students: ”I felt boring when days after days were spent meaninglessly’ / ‘He doted him and he doted her’ / ‘Grandma cared me so much she does something out of expectation” (L10-L12). The poet’s examples are well chosen. It is indeed a hard task for Asian speakers to learn the difference between the –ed participle and the –ing participle in cases such as ‘boring’ and ‘bored’; no matter how many times someone is told that ‘boring’ describes the characteristics of something and ‘bored’ is a feeling, it is still easy to confuse them. In the second example, we see the omission of the preposition ‘on’. Forgetting or misusing a preposition or prepositional phrase is a common mistake for English learners, especially because their rules must often be memorised and can seem arbitrary or contradictory. (It may also be possible that there is some confusion in the use of personal pronouns. Is the same person doting on both a man and a woman as is suggested by the sentence? Or are a man and a woman supposed to be doting on one another?) The third example consists of a number of mistakes, even though the word choice reveals a nearly comprehensible meaning.
Comprehensible meaning: perhaps this is the most we can expect from the majority of second-language learners. The professor seems resigned to this fact in the following stanza: he ‘decides that it’s probably just as well / His grasshopper arms powerless against the onslaught / Of an English in spite of itself’ (L13-L15). To demonstrate his new found attitude, he decides as a farewell to use the students’ own language: ‘So, in his last class, he found time to speak / Their language’ (L16-L17). Deliberately copying and echoing the students’ grammatical mistakes, he describes his excitement about going home: ‘I felt exciting at the thought / Of returning to Oz as living here I often feel boring // I objected myself speaking such bad English’ (L17-L19).
The possessive pronoun ‘their’ is loaded with meanings. The professor is not really using ‘their’ language, as the students’ language would be Chinese. Is there a hint of Western arrogance here? It would seem so as the use of the word ‘their’ also reveals a sense of superiority, a feeling that his students are not speaking real English or at least the English he considers proper. Perhaps this is why the professor has decided to ‘return to Oz’ (note the literary and possibly geographical reference here), fearing that his English is deteriorating while in China. Or are we being too harsh on the professor? ‘Their’ may just suggest that he is trying to show his fondness for his students in a humorous way by mocking them affectionately. The last lines may show that the professor has true admiration for his students’ innovative and unconventional use of English: ‘I do care you and I admire you / For things like this: ‘On that day’s noon’ / And your brilliant slips of pen, like this: / ‘We must all uphold human tights” (L20-L23). Regardless of the professor’s true emotion, the last line may be a serious comment on the state of China. Does the students’ use of ‘human tights’ reflect on the country’s failure to respect ‘human rights’?
One of my close friends, who is now teaching English in China, has had similar experiences with his students. However, as a Westerner, he is unsure if it would be appropriate for him to write such a poem, as it may be seen as offensive by some. Do you think that this is the case? And would it change your view on the poem if it were written by a local Chinese person or a person of Asian descent who had grown up in the West?
Clichéd love
25/10/2009
“Do you know I love you, as much as I can![]()
in such a short time?” But I say: you’re a blind man.
It is clichéd love: strangers meet and fall in love.
A big guy, shy about your beard, six feet tall.
You do boys’ things: video games, gym, football.
But you write a little, too, enjoy rediscovering words.
Now, you find me a possible muse for your pelican verse.
It is clichéd love: strangers meet and fall in love.
You write me into your poems: I am a shooting star,
a hooked fish, I’m callous, whimsical, scarred.
I am to dance, wordlessly, under the sea.
In one incarnation, I am a woman to be kissed.
One million things you see through me, and each you say
is true. I must be a monster. An imagery buffet.
It is clichéd love: strangers meet and fall in love.
Go on, write then. Write like a poet; eat me, use me.
Until one day you finish your sweet sauvage, then flee.
It is love: strangers meet and fall in love.
An Education
31/10/2009
Tonight, we went to watch the terrific An Education, starring Carey Mulligan and Peter Sarsgaard. The film was adapted by Nick Hornby from Lynn Barber’s memoir, originally published in Granta (maybe one day someone will adapt a piece from Cha into a major motion picture). The film is beautifully shot, and it is surefootedly directed by Lone Scherfig.
An Education, which is set in the early 1960s before sex was invented, as Philip Larkin has it, centres on the seduction of the sixteen-year-old Jenny (Mulligan) by the older and charming David (Sarsgaard). Jenny lives in a dull suburb where she is studying to go to Oxford University. Desperate to see the world beyond her narrow life, she readily submits to David’s advances. David introduces her to a sophisticated world of restaurants, art auctions and jazz clubs. The man turns out to be a fraud, a kind of conman, but he is likable, kind and worldly. He manages not only to seduce the girl, but also her parents, who allow her to go to Paris with him. Although Jenny’s future is put in jeopardy by David, she ultimately learns an important lesson.
The movie could have ended up being a dreary period piece but Hornby’s script is insightful and very funny. Alfred Molina who plays Jenny’s father gets a number of great lines and he makes the most of them. The scenes between David and Jenny’s parents are hilarious. The relationship between David and Jenny is also complicated enough to prevent the story from being a simple tale of predator and victim. David is immoral but also sympathetic. And Jenny, who although naive, knowingly allows herself to be taken in by the older man as it provides her the opportunity to broaden her horizons.
The performances are all strong (even Dominic Cooper, who plays David’s friend, redeems himself from his previous dreadful performance.) Mulligan is being hyped for a well-deserved Oscar nod. In the film, she has the kind of plain look that is harmless but is also capable of being transformed into something more glamorous. Sarsgaard captures the character, managing to be both charming and quietly menacing. We also enjoyed the few scenes in which Emma Thompson, playing the headmistress of Jenny’s school, appears. She seemed perfectly cast for the role.
The evocation of time and place in An Education is top drawer. The details of the time are recreated convincingly and the cinematography is very lovely. Finally, or should I say, firstly, the opening credit sequence is intelligent and entertaining. The artwork from the credits blended nicely into the actual film as the story began. All in all, terrific entertainment.
Bright Star
07/11/2009

Last night, we went to watch Jane Campion’s luscious Bright Star, the story of the doomed relationship between John Keats (played by Ben Whishaw) and his muse, Fanny Brawne (played by Abbie Cornish). The film, which is made of hundreds of perfectly framed and composed pictures, is a stunning visual treat that captures the details of the period (the movie begins in 1818 and covers a few years until Keats’s death). Campion’s recreation of the time is authentic but never overdone; it has a lived-in feel that other period dramas do not. The characters inhabit the exteriors and interiors naturally. They gather in their dark kitchen and linger comfortably in the Heath and fields beyond their house.
Apart from this natural recreation of the time, Campion also manages to incorporate Keats’s poetry into the movie in an effective and believable way. Many literary bio-pics cannot quite mesh the need to include the writers’ words and the need to tell a story in moving pictures. In Bright Star, Campion skillfully overcomes this problem. The scenes, for example, in which Keats and Brawne show their love for each other by alternately quoting sections of Keats’s poems, are beautiful.
Certainly, part of the effectiveness of these moments is due to the actors themselves. Ben Whishaw gives a nice turn as the distracted and tubercular Keats; and Abbie Cornish is captivating as the emotional and dramatic Brawne. She capably portrays the youthfulness and heightened sensitivity of a young girl hopelessly in love. In one scene, she’s ready to kill herself just because Keats sends her a shorter letter than normal. It’s both hilarious and affecting. Everyone else in the picture is good, especially Paul Schneider who plays Keats’s self-loathing Scottish friend, Charles Armitage Brown. I also want to mention Edie Martin as Brawne’s younger sister, Toots. She is very natural and likable.
The movie was perhaps a little over long. But Campion’s skill and vision shines through. Unlike many movies which I forget as soon as I leave the cinema, Bright Star had a number of scenes which I think will stick with me for a long while. There is a beautiful moment in which Keats and Brawne are walking behind Toots who is acting as a kind of young chaperon. When Toots is not looking, the loving young couple engages in affectionate kissing. But when she turns her head to check on them, the couple freeze in silly or coy positions. During this game of statue, the footage seems to divide in two: Toots and the rest of the images on the screen remain in motion but the leads seem to be presented in freeze frame; a suggestion that their love is so engrossing that for them time has stopped. So much is said in this speechless sequence.
Also, a scene in which Brawne drunk on Keats’s recent love letters starts a butterfly farm in her room is simply stunning. I don’t think I have ever seen an image like it before.
I greatly enjoyed Whishaw’s recitation of “Ode to a Nightingale” played over the closing credits. Most of the audience stayed to listen to the poem. I, too, froze on my seat to listen to each syllable, word, and line.
Leaving the theater, I thought that Bright Star was a very bright star indeed.
Moctezuma
08/11/2009
On Saturday, we went to the British Museum to see the special exhibition “Moctezuma: Aztec Ruler”. As the name suggests, the display centres on Moctezuma, the last real leader of the Mexica Empire. Despite the title, the curatorial notes made a big deal about calling their culture by their real name ‘Mexica’, not the more well-known name ‘Aztec’.
The exhibition was very clearly-presented. It started with some background about the Mexica and their creation myths, which have to do with an eagle and a human heart. I guess that’s why sacrifices involving human hearts were so central to their religious and cultural practices. We saw a number of vessels that were used for collecting hearts for rituals. The story then continued with Moctezuma’s immediate ancestors and then moved on to discuss his rule. Finally, it ended with the Spanish conquest. Not surprisingly, it focused a lot on the relationship between Hernan Cortés and Moctezuma. Their famous first meeting has been the focus of much research and debate. Although the exhibit doesn’t come down on one side or the other about what Moctezuma thought of Cortes, or weather Cortes had Moctezuma killed or not, their story was effectively described through a series of paintings which later Spanish residents of Mexico painted to educate settlers about the main historical events of the area. It certainly did seem, however, that Moctezuma, for all his great power, gave away his empire to the Spanish.
My only complaint about the exhibition was that there weren’t as many artifacts as I would have liked. Still, the pieces they did have were clearly presented and explained. I enjoyed the beautiful masks made out of turquoise mosaics, the various paintings, the stone remnants from the religious section of Tenochtitlan and from Moctezuma’s palace. I also enjoyed the descriptions of Mexica’s iconography and symbolism. For example, Moctezuma had a special insignia that was put on all the things he owned as well as many of the monuments built during his rule. The use of the traditional Mexica calendar was also fascinating. For example, many of the dates were also included on the statues and artifacts we saw, in a manner similar to the Western practice of putting the year a building was constructed on its wall.
Lastly, the most impressive piece of the exhibit is a huge stone monument to great warriors. To me, it looked like a throne designed to look like a miniature temple. The curator specifically located the piece directly under the oculus of the British Museum’s dome, signifying the central place the piece had in Mexica culture. There was perhaps some interesting comment about the nature of Empire in the curator’s decision to place such a symbolic piece at the heart of the British Museum.
Quote of the day
24/12/2009
“Love without marriage is still a sacred thing. And unlike wedlock, it is not dissolved by death.” — BBC’s Cranford, S2:E1
But what about this:
Seen in Highgate Cemetery
and my left eye is transmogrifying into
21/12/2009
Just peeping
20/12/2009
… through a pair of 3D glasses.
Similar post(s):
“If I Do Not Have You”
17/12/2009
New poems in Word Riot
15/12/2009
Two new poems, “Something is rotten” and “You ride your bike”, accepted for publication by Charles P Ries, poet editor of Word Riot, back in May 2009, are finally ready to see the world here. Previously, WR has published my poem, “She dressed in all black“, in August 2007. This is homecoming.
Quote of the day
11/12/2009
We Real Cool
by Gwendolyn Brooks
THE POOL PLAYERS.
SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.
We real cool. We
Left school. We
Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We
Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We
Jazz June. We
Die soon.
The Habit of Art (quotes)
10/12/2009
Tonight we went to see Alan Bennett’s new play, The Habit of Art. Was it good? Suffice it to say that at the interval I went to buy a signed copy of the play, published by Faber and Faber. There are too many memorable quotes; I’ll try to include only those related to writing.
- So let’s talk about the vanity. This one, the connoisseur
of emptiness, is tipped for the Nobel Prize yet still needs to win at Monopoly. That playwright’s skin is so thin he can feel pain on the other side of the world … so why is he deaf to the suffering next door? Proud of his modesty, this one gives frequent, rare interviews in which he aggregates praise and denudes others of credit. Artists celebrated for their humanity, they turn out to be scarcely human at all. - Why poets should be interviewed I can’t think. A writer is not a man of action. His private life is or should be of no concern to anyone except himself, his family and his friends. The rest is impertinence.
- Poetry to me is as much a craft as an art and I have always prided myself on being able to turn my hand to anything — a wedding hymn, a requiem, a loyal toast … No job too small. I would have been happy to have hunt up a shingle in the street: “W. H. Auden. Poet.”
- Writers in particular perceive biography as a threat, something I had still to learn. Poets are particularly vulnerable to biography because readers naturally assume they are sincere, that their verses are dispatches from the heart, the self at its most honest. When the biographer reveals the self is sometimes quite different, the poet is thought a hypocrite. I’m thinking of Robert Frost.
- When I was young my poems were often reports from the top of my head. I wrote the first thing that occurred to me and it was poetry. Now when I take more care, and it truly is a dispatch from the heart … it is not poetry at all.
- Do you mind not doing that? You should not quote a poet’s words back at him. It is a betrayal of trust. A poem is a confidence. Besides which many of my poems embarrass me. they don’t seem — Dr Leavis’s word — authentic.
People tell me off for censoring my poems, rewriting them, or cutting some well-loved lines. I tell them it’s because I can no longer endorse those particular sentiments, but it’s also because I’m fed up with hearing them quoted. (Ironically.) ‘We must love one another or we die.’ (Shudders.) - This is England all over. Hasn’t even mastered fellatio.
- The play is not about cocksucking.
- The genitals are fascinating too, because they’re shape-shifting. Subject to desire obviously, but to fear and cold and the innate propensity of all flesh to creep. The penis has a personal character every bit as much as its owner and very often the two are quite different. Have you found that? Men are incongruously equipped in their very essence ….
- I have the habit of art. I write poems of a cosy domesticity trying to catch the few charred emotions that scuttle across my lunefied landscape. Still, writing is apparently therapeutic. That’s what they say these days, isn’t it? It is therapeutic. When I was young I envied Hardy’s hawk-like vision… his way of looking at life from a great height. I tried to do that, only now I suppose I have come down to earth. He has taken the words out of my mouth.
- What I fear is that on Judgement Day one’s punishment will be to hear God reciting by heart the poems I would have written had my life been good.
- Readers are so literal-minded. If you say you’re fond of somewhere, the question that arises in the ordinary reader’s mind is why, if you like it so much, don’t you go and live there. ‘You talk about Westmoreland but you live in New York. You’re a hypocrite.’
- We do not contain life. It contains us, holds us sometimes in its jaws. The senile, the demented, life has them in its teeth … in the cracks and holes of its teeth, maybe, but still in its teeth. They cannot let go of it until it lets go of them.
- There are some writers who set their sights on the Nobel Prize before they even pick up the pen. Elias Canetti is like that. And I’m afraid Thomas Mann. Never underestimate the role of the will in the artistic life. Some writers are all will. Talent you can dispense with, but not will. Will is paramount. Not joy, not delight, but grim application.
- When I was young I used to leave meaning to chance. If it sounded right I left the meaning take care of itself. It’s why I find some of my early stuff so embarrassing. [...] Except that now I’m more scrupulous and make an effort to tell the truth, people say it’s dull and my early stuff was better.
- This is the nature of style. It imposes itself. [...] Style is the sum of one’s imperfections… what one can’t do, as much as what one can…
- Death isn’t the payment. Death is just the checkout.
- Dirt is everywhere.
- Or whatever age it is nowadays that beauty can be legally admired. The boy Thomas Mann actually saw and took a fancy to was eleven. Mann wrote him up as being fourteen. Now you’re suggesting sixteen. At this rate he’ll soon be drawing a pension.
- Our passport is what we have written.
- There’s no malice in it. It’s just an entirely human desire for completion… the mild satisfaction of drawing a line under you. Death shapes a life.
Dead, you see, you belong to your admirers in your entirety. They own you. They can even quote you to your face — only it will be a dead face — at your memorial service perhaps, or when they unveil the stone in Westminster Abbey. Over and done with: W. H. Auden. Benjamin Britten. Next. - I would find it intolerable myself if only because of the degree of self-relegation involved. A biographer is invariably second-rank even when he or she is first-rate.
- (This is the ‘rent-boy’ speaking) No, not Caliban, whoever he was. And not in the language of Henry James, or any other tosser. No. Me. Us. Here. Now. When do we figure and get to say our say? The great men’s lives are neatly parcelled for posterity, but what about us? When do we take our bow? Not in biography. Not even in diaries.’A boy came around. Picked up on the hill. Didn’t stay.”Your grandfather was sucked off by W. H. Auden.”Benjamin Britten sat naked on the side of my bath.’Because if nothing else, we at least contributed. We were in attendance, we boys of art. And though there’s the odd photograph, nobody remembers who they’re of: uncaptioned or ‘with an unidentified friend’, unnamed girls, unnameable boys, the flings, the tricks. The fodder of art.
- It cannot be said too often: what matters is the work. That night in Vienna I read from my poem on the death of Yeats.Earth, receive an honoured guest;
William Yeats is laid to rest:
Let the Irish vessel lie
Emptied of its poetry.Time that is intolerant
Of the brave and innocent,
And indifferent in a week
To a beautiful physique,Worships language and forgives
Everyone by whom it lives;
Pardons cowardice, conceit,
Lays its honours at their feet.Time that with this strange excuse
Pardoned Kipling and his views,
And will pardon Paul Claudel,
Pardons him for writing well.Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice;In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountain start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.
Cocktail dresses from my dear friend
09/12/2009
A song to accompany this post (Rose McGowan’s version of “You Belong to Me”)

Courtesy of JZ.
Mike (Marie) sent me these two cocktail dresses and they finally arrived on Saturday. They fit me perfectly. I just need to get myself into events that I can wear them! In the first picture, I am putting on some shoes. In the second one, I am just looking silly. Thank you, Mike, for these two lovely dresses. I have no idea what I have done to deserve being treated so well.
Similar post(s):
Quote of the day
09/12/2009
Ford Madox Brown’s The Last of England (1856)
Analysis by Wendy S. Jacobson from Dickens and the Children of Empire, p. 1:
“Ford Madox Brown’s The Last of England (1856) is the Victorian painting which most famously portrays the theme of emigration from England to the colonies. In the background, as a haunting icon of departure from England, are the white cliffs of Dover. Behind the woebegone couple, and removed from them by a shift of perspective, steerage passengers swirl about, and our attention is drawn to their hands: a child clutches an apple to her mouth, a pipe is held aloft by a grinning man, a clenched fist is struck into the air, and a disembodied hand holds a hat. In the foreground, the large figure of the husband has his hand thrust into a dark brown heavy coat and the other clasps the black-gloved hand of his wife; she holds the tiny hand of a baby sheltered beneath her cloak. They stand at the railings while England recedes, the man’s dark burliness looking out of an anguished face, while her wide blue eyes brim with tears of anxiety and regret. Behind her is a large black umbrella open against rain and spray; a red ribbon holding her bonnet with a great bow flying in the wind is the one bright touch in the painting which portrays a sense of utter loneliness; at her knee is a small pile of books, in her lap is the tiny child and only its shape and hand are visible. Their future will bring an experience of colonizing and alienation, violence and fear, failure and success[.]“
Quote of the day
08/12/2009
“Reading, in its critical use, always charms me. An actress’s Reading of a chambermaid, a dancer’s Reading of a hornpipe, a singer’s Reading of a song, a marine painter’s Reading of the sea, the kettle-drum’s Reading of an instrumental passage, are phrases ever youthful and delightful.”
–Charles Dickens’s Our Mutual Friend, p. 605
Highgate Cemetery without Karl Marx
06/12/2009
On Saturday, we went to Highgate Cemetery where we took a guided tour of the West side. Highgate Cemetery is divided into two sections: the West and East sides. Most visitors go to the East side to see the graves of famous people, most notably Karl Marx. Our guide told us that tour buses full of people from former Communist countries often go to see Karl Marx’s grave (and they like smoking a cigarette next to it too) and no one else.
Highgate Cemetery is perhaps also known for being the setting of Audrey Niffenegger’s second and new book, Her Fearful Symmetry (2009). Niffenegger’s first was the massively popular The Time Traveler’s Wife, published in 2003 and turned into a motion picture this year.
However, we decided to take a tour of the less-visited West side (Karl Marx, George Eliot, William Foyle, Douglas Adams and more will have to wait for another time…). There were only five people on our tour and we learnt a great deal from our young voluntary guide. Some of the things we learnt are summarised below:
1) The cemetery began as a private venture run by the London Cemetery Company. It opened in 1839 as one of many new commercial cemeteries designed to make money and solve the growing problems associated with London’s overcrowded public burial grounds. For example, many corpses were stolen by body snatchers who sold the bodies to hospitals for medical research. The idea was that the cemetery, which was at that time located outside of the city, would be a quiet oasis for people to spend the afterlife. It was also an attraction that people came to visit during the weekends. They could admire the view of London from Highgate and hopefully be convinced to buy a plot. The company originally did well, but as spaces filled, the maintenance exceeded the profits. By the 1970s, the cemetery was in disrepair and was being vandalised.
The front gate to the West side of Highgate Cemetery
2) Since the 1970s, the cemetery has been run by a charity, the Friends of Highgate Cemetery Trust (FoHCT). Especially on the West side, their policy is called ‘managed neglect’. The effect is that the cemetery is largely overrun but still free of garbage. The organisation takes relative little initiative to restore the graves but it does trim back the trees and plants. This all gives the cemetery a rather Romantic feel, as if you were walking into a lost world.
3) The guide told us a lot about the symbolism and fashion statements associated with the graves. For example, on their graves, many people chose to have a Roman column which was severed at the top to symbolise a life cut short. This was then topped by a wreath to represent the triumph of the afterlife over our worldly existence.

4) The highlight of the tour may have been the Egyptian Avenue and the Circle of Lebanon. The Egyptian Avenue was originally designed to impress visitors and to exploit the interest in things Egyptian of the time.
Egyptian Avenue
Bat holes
As we walked along the Avenue, we saw many crypts which had holes in the doors for bats to come out in the evening. The Avenue led to the Circle of Lebanon, which must have been the centrepiece of the entire cemetery. They built the Circle around a huge tree which has only grown larger in the 150 years or so since it was built. Today, the Circle feels like a village of the dead:

5) One of the people buried in the Circle was the lesbian author Radclyffe Hall, who incidentally also went to King’s College London. Hall is most well-known for her controversial novel, The Well of Loneliness, which has overt lesbian themes and was banned in both the UK and the US. She is buried with one of her lovers.
6) Above the Circle, we saw the grave of George Wombwell, who founded Wombwell’s Travelling Menagerie, a kind of travelling zoo. He began his career when he bought two boa constrictors from the London Docks. He then began touring pubs with the snakes, a business which made him a good profit. From there he expanded to other animals. He had two lions, one of which was called Nero. Nero, famous for his docility, is featured on Wombwell’s grave:

7) Also above the Circle, we were introduced to Julius Beer, a German investor in the nineteenth century. His mausoleum is the biggest and tallest in the cemetery. The guide seemed to think Beer, a self-made man and proprietor of The Observer, built such a large monument to make up for the fact that in his life time, he had not been well received in Victorian English society.
Julius Beer’s Mausoleum
8) Another stop we made in the main part of the cemetery was at the grave of Thomas Sayers, the famous nineteenth-century bareknuckle boxer. His funeral was believed to have been attended by thousands of fans, an impressive feat for a time in which boxing was officially illegal. Sayers’s most famous fight was against the American John C. Heenan; the fight was advertised as the championship of the English-speaking world. The fight went on for two hours and twenty minutes (37 rounds) before it was finally broken up by police and called a draw. After the fight, Sayers’s fans raised money for him to retire from boxing. He spent his last days going from pub to pub with his dog, Lion, buying drinks and being bought drinks. Lion is featured on his grave as a loyal friend and guardian.
Thomas Sayers, guarded by his faithful friend, Lion
9) Although we couldn’t see them because they are in an overgrown section of the cemetery, Dickens’s parents are buried in the West side of Highgate Cemetery. I tried to test the guide’s knowledge but he didn’t seem to know a great deal about the rest of the family. Still, he was a very good guide, who seemed to have great passion for the place. Because he only volunteered once a month, he was genuinely excited to be there and shared with us what he knows.
After visiting Highgate Cemetery, we went to the fashionable and hip Camdan Town. Surprise! I bought two clothing items, one of which was a discounted funky small jacket for cross-dressing purposes (kidding!). It’s quite dashing.
Can you believe it?
06/12/2009
They covered Sue Hubbard’s poem “Eurydice” (based on the well-known myth of Orpheus and Eurydice), previously painted on the pedestrian tunnel from London’s Waterloo Station to South Bank, in blue paint. I read the poem every time I walked through that tunnel to and from the Waterloo station and the National Theatre (see this, this and this). Apparently, Network Rail realised the huge mistake and is trying to get art students to repaint the poem.
Crying men
06/12/2009
Have you heard of Sam Taylor-Wood’s Crying Men (2004), her sold-out photographic portraits of 28 famous actors in tears (or almost in tears)? See 21 of them here.
If you have a great idea (in this case, photographing sobbing men — I do not think crying actresses would be as appealing) and if you are established in the industry, you can do almost anything. Of all the portraits, I like Forest Whitaker’s most:

Looking at him for a few moments, my eyes welled up just imagining what it was that he was thinking that was so upsetting (this is one clumsy sentence). I have liked him ever since watching his performance in Panic Room (2002). Never mind the film. He’s heartbreaking playing the sympathetic bad guy. I know many people like his Oscar-winning performance in The Last King of Scotland (2006).
Daniel Craig and Tim Roth also pained my heart.
Introducing Steven Digman
05/12/2009
I am happy to have the opportunity to feature a piece of artwork by Steven entitled “Alone with Another Woman”. We will be publishing some of his more ‘Asian-themed’ (my term, not his) art pieces in the February 2010 issue of Cha.
Steven is a photographer, inventor, songwriter, music publisher, poet, former music journalist and luthier. More about him can be found here.
Quote of the day
05/12/2009
The first time I heard this song, I was a first-year student at the University of Hong Kong. A lecturer played it to a class of fresh students. She dimmed the light. She told us to listen.
The Sound Of Silence (1964)
–Written by the genius Paul Simon
Hello darkness, my old friend
I’ve come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence
In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone
‘Neath the halo of a street lamp
I turn my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence
And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never shared
No one dared
Disturb the sound of silence
“Fools,” said I, “you do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you”
But my words like silent raindrops fell
And echoed in the wells of silence
And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said “The words of the prophets
are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls”
And whispered in the sound of silence
Quote of the day
04/12/2009
“How much does your life weigh? Imagine for a second that you’re carrying a backpack. I want you to pack it with all the stuff that you have in your life… you start with the little things. The shelves, the drawers, the knickknacks, then you start adding larger stuff. Clothes, tabletop appliances, lamps, your TV… the backpack should be getting pretty heavy now. You go bigger. Your couch, your car, your home… I want you to stuff it all into that backpack. Now I want you to fill it with people. Start with casual acquaintances, friends of friends, folks around the office… and then you move into the people you trust with your most intimate secrets. Your brothers, your sisters, your children, your parents and finally your husband, your wife, your boyfriend, your girlfriend. You get them into that backpack, feel the weight of that bag. Make no mistake your relationships are the heaviest components in your life. All those negotiations and arguments and secrets, the compromises. The slower we move the faster we die. Make no mistake, moving is living. Some animals were meant to carry each other to live symbiotically over a lifetime. Star crossed lovers, monogamous swans. We are not swans. We are sharks.”
–From the film Up in the Air (2009), starring George Clooney, who has three films coming out right now and is the biggest star in the business today. This film is adapted from Walter Kirn’s 2001 novel of the same title.
This makes me smile
03/12/2009
“Scientific Love” in poeticdiversity
02/12/2009

To you, I could be everywhere at once.
I could be in a train to Victoria station,
counting the books I’ve just borrowed,
feeling their hard spines.
–from “Scientific Love”
“Scientific Love” (please click here to read the entire poem) is newly published in the December 2009 issue (Vol. 7, No. 3) of poeticdiversity. I will have two more poems featured in this journal in April 2010. The editor said to me: “Rarely do I get the pleasure of being greedy…” I am flattered.
I wrote “Scientific Love” when we were living in a small room in Seven Sisters, London, for two weeks in November last year. Those were not so glorious days. I remember that dreary dark room and the ’shared kitchen’, mentioned in the poem. The piece was also inspired by the reading of Scarlett Thomas’s The End of Mr Y, a very fun and moderately poetic neo-Victorian novel which I may discuss in my thesis.
Another poem written around this time was “Free Association“, published in Literary Bohemian in February. There are some more scientific ideas lurking around, waiting to be written in some poems.
The Christmas Song
01/12/2009
![]()
Thank you, Oscar, for singing this Christmas song for me, on the first day of December. I have almost forgotten your choir voice. It must have been five years? Your singing warms my little heart, for a while. And it’s a good while. Send the file to other girls as well. They’ll love it. Don’t ask them to come here, though. They may get jealous.
Similar post(s):



What is the moral of stories like “Rumpelsiltskin” and “Clever Gretchen”? They teach us to be deceitful and manipulative; they teach us it is fine to break our promises. They teach us women — the queen and Gretchen — are capable of getting themselves (and their men) out of thorny situations, using their wit, power or body. (And the male characters? In “Rumpelsiltskin”, the father and the king are both despicable. In “Clever Gretchen”, the lord is shallow and Hans plain pedestrian, albeit cheerful and nice — positive qualities that most girls tend to admire.) Admittedly, one of the purposes of fairytales like these, for people in peasant cultures, was learn to be crafty and learn to survive, if you want to get along in the world. I understand the point of these stories wasn’t to make heroes and heroines, but to give your sons and daughters the knowledge that the world is not a nice place. Still, I can’t help but think there is something wrong about implicitly suggesting that being untruthful is acceptable.





