Tuesday, January 11, 2005

To the Man

Mister, Mister, such arrogance.
Treating us like the potted ferns.
You’ve gotta analyze,
supervise,
scrutinize,
Values within your puny mind.
Mister, Mister, you will get returns.

Mister, Mister, what’s this gesture?
Shoo, Be gone, Hookers and Beggars?
We just wanna,
gotta,
hav’ta,
Change you for the better.
Mister, Mister, not fit to father.

Mister, Mister, wait a moment.
Do not shrug off our sentiments.
Our arguments
are Singaporean,
never, not Western,
Sounded from people’s concern.
Mister, Mister, rethink your judgment.

Mister, Mister, News of the Day!
Who will marry you anyway?
What’s that word? Obey?
No way,
José.
We’d rather be nuns who pray
“Mister, Mister. Misters, go away!”

Mister, Mister, there are no Eves.
God should have made Adams and Steves.
No temptress shall deceive,
conceive,
perceive,
Then there will be Peace.
Mister, Mister, more egos to please.

Mister, Mister, you’re to marry?
We are feeling very sorry
For that life you will ruin,
not funny.
With money,
You buy and she bought her virgin.
Mister, Mister, we prefer the ferry.

Mister, Mister, what’s everything?
Those beings are at least living.
You called them friends,
buddies,
kakis.
Now you treat them as fiends.
Mister, Mister, you are appalling.

Mister, Mister, please don’t deny.
Have you been awake through the night?
You look a troubled,
worried,
married,
Man whose life has crumbled.
Mister, Mister, shed that poor disguise.

Mister, Mister, her temper blew
At the Cauldron of “Love” you brew.
These bitter potions
of wrath,
of graft,
Have poisoned her disposition.
Mister, Mister, don’t say you’ve no clue.

Mister, Mister, control your thoughts.
She’s paying you with what you taught.
The stereotypes you conform her,
expectations
of false passions,
Will only serve to make her bitter.
Mister, Mister, she’s happier than when she’s bought.

Mister, Mister, read the by-line?
The writer’s one you left behind.
A classmate whose letters you’ve torn.
You used to call her
“as stupid
as Cupid.”
But please remember
“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”
Mister, Mister, what’s troubling your mind?

Mister, Mister, farewell for now.
At last, we see you on(in) the brown.
Soaked in Red,
on the pews.
How it feels
to be ewes
Slaughtered, a sacrifice for the dead.
Mister, Brother, Martyr for this town.

To the Women

(Reading Instructions: Read this once, then read again in synchronized paragraph with To the Man.)

Ladies, Ladies, Please! Wait your turns.
At least wait till the butter’s churned.
I’ve gotta analyze,
supervise,
scrutinize,
Matters beyond your puny minds.
Ladies, Ladies, you will get your turns.

Ladies, Ladies, cease this banter.
Look elsewhere for your cheap chatter.
I just wanna,
gotta,
hav’ta,
Climb this social ladder.
Ladies, Ladies, sob to your mothers.

Ladies, Ladies, Wrong! Bad Judgment.
I’m the Scholar of the Government.
I have returned,
to Singaporean,
no longer Western,
Armed with modern acumen.
Ladies, Ladies, redo this assignment.

Ladies, Ladies, I am to stay.
Let’s get married without delay.
All my words you’ll obey,
everyday,
any way,
After we walk down the aisle at the Quay. (Fullerton?)
Ladies, Ladies. Ladies? Where are they?

Ladies, Ladies, are hard to please.
I wish they’re made like good ol’ Eve.
Guess I’ll have to look overseas.
A Chinese,
Japanese,
Russian, Malaysian, maybe Vietnamese.
Ladies, Ladies. Ladies that will please.

Ladies, Ladies, I’m to marry.
Bet you are now feeling sorry.
Bought her for a handsome dowry.
Her virgin,
examined.
Unlike you, she’s sweet, not sultry.
Ladies, Ladies, honeymoon’s Paris.

Ladies, Ladies, how’s everything?
Why are you dating those beings?
Some were my peers,
inferior,
“Heartlanders”.
Now I’m their superior.
Ladies, Ladies, this is so shocking.

Ladies, ladies, everything’s fine.
Wife’s expecting, thus she’s confined.
Zhou Mi’s such a beauty.
Cranky?
Maybe…
But she gives me enough pocket money.
Ladies, Ladies, I’m more than fine.

Ladies, Ladies, she’s got the blues.
Threw me out with only my shoes.
Where can I go?
To Dad?
I’m Sad
That I haven’t cuddled my Regent Goh.
Ladies, Ladies, I still have no clues.

Ladies, Ladies, I’ll be in Court.
Bloody Bitch screwed the man from Courts.
That Bastard’s his,
that Regent.
Religion
Keeps me alive through all this.
Ladies, Ladies, there! There’s the trio to the Court.

Ladies, Ladies, Skip the Headlines.
The bitch’s been spouting all these lies.
I’m a Chauvinist?
Me, Impotent?!
Incompetent?!
She might as well call me a Communist!
Ladies, Ladies, disregard these lies.

Ladies, Ladies, farewell for now.
Here I’m taking my final bow.
My life’s taken a torrid twist.
Commotions,
demotions.
Devotions.
For in this Church, I slit my wrist.
Ladies, Ladies. Blessings, God Bestows.

Wednesday, January 05, 2005

The bed

In a darkened room, there were two. One was asleep, the other was awake. He slept in fear of the sunset. She slept to avoid the blinding sunrise that might compromise her sight. He would never sleep before dawn to wonder at the lustre of the breaking day. She will never sleep before dusk to feel at one with the commune. He feared the gradual shift from light into darkness, from elation to melancholy, any symbol associated with it, especially the sunset. She feared diversity, any behaviour associated with it, and saw it as rebellion. He feared transition. She wanted to experience only night and light, ignoring the transition. In his sleep, he confronted fear. In her wake, she dreamt of satisfying equality. He struggled, frustrated. She conformed, satiated.

A tinge of regret

Well, this blog will probably end up as a platform for me to share my B-grade writings with the world. Pardonez-moi, but I will try to increase the quality of my posts. Most of my early works will probably end up here in this crappy wasteland, the better ones will be kept for my first book, which should be out in most obscure bookstores this lifetime. Will appreciate your feedback periodically on the stuff written, and please be kind to me, OK?
This is free publishing, ah, so don't expect Borgesian or Joycean-quality works, just the selected rantings of a madman. Will try to publish only short pieces, as I don't wanna waste your precious time reading my junk, even though you have been great friends of mine. I know many of you have no life, but please go read The New Paper or something. Get out of the blog. Shoo. Shoo. For cheapos intending to plagiarize this, however unlikely and stupid it might be, this stuff is copyrighted. Citations available on request, some of this crap has actually been published. Anyways, have fun ploughing through this. Bumper issue today, two pieces of crap will be served up.

Tuesday, January 04, 2005

The Island of Dreams

Hey, ho, away we go!
There goes another shipload.
Hey, ho, away we go!
Here comes another busload.

Mother, Mother,
Look! The pirates are here,
Raise the flag. You, come on out,
Get in line, over here.
Hurry! Please! Don’t make me shout.

My Dear, My Dear,
It is starting to rain,
Hang the babies out to dry.
Nuisances yet again,
They do not but eat and cry.

Sisters, Sisters,
Put on your girly grins.
May, you saving on make-up?
June, your dolls in the tins!
Please?
And put away those tea-cups.

Good Sirs, Good. Sirs,
Welcome to the Jungle.
Have a good look. Take your time.
Good choice, she’s just a girl.
Fear not, this is not a crime.

Yes, Sir. Yes, Sir?
That’s June, she’s real hot!
Sorry, got no more like her.
Why not give May a shot?
She’s twelve, a little older.

No, Sir. No. Sir,
It’s bad for my image.
Her? She’s my eldest daughter.
Not passed the legal age,
Only six. Wait till next year.

Please, Sir! …, Please Sir.
Sir, fancy a double?
Quick to please, that’s her mother.
Great. For ten more roubles:
Buy mature tease, my mother.

Reader, Reader.
Welcome to the Island of Dreams. Welcome to My parallel universe. Yes, I am sick, sickened. The primal instinct of my inhuman nature overcame, eroded, negated, atrophied, exfoliated, whatever, the remains of my affiliation to kinship. Pursuing the permanent merger of my soul to my shadow, I have swung to the tide of them: The timeless tide of time. Pretty Pity.
Detached, I poison my restless mutant carcass, yes, a carcass, for I was born, made, a minute less than Human. Madam, please. Perceive, Receive, Preserve me in my present disposition, I am perfectly whole in my homeostasis. Status Quo. Simple question. I know what I mean. Ah yes, Joyfully inhuman. Inhuman?
Reader,
I am caught between two lands: The North and The South. The busloads from the North, the shiploads from the South. Who dictated that The North and The South will be greater than the Middle?
I’m fine. For as in all Vortices, the Middle is that in which all forms revolve to and through. Perhaps I am not fine, after all, anymore. This Vortex is senseless- it does not conform to the laws of Being. Perhaps it is not a Vortex after all. Perhaps.
Reader,
Imagine. Perhaps? Imagine. Imagine yourselves as the fence between North and South. The in-between. Imagine. Imagine yourselves as the Island of Dreams, perpetually used by North and South. Imagine a land of permanent darkness amidst the lands of the Light. Imagine they name this land the “Land of Ceaseless Light”, the Island of Dreams. A land of Ceaseless Night, really. A land of Ceaseless Red Lights.
Imagine I like red. Imagine I like the red lights. Imagine the red lights as the warning lights of Being. Imagine, hustle-bustle-scatter-scuttle-helter-skelter through the warning signs of Being and enter the realms of Dreams in the Land of Ceaseless Light. Imagine the ferocity of the Dreams that lies in wait in the Island of Dreams. Imagine the dreams, of pleasure, of pains, of your deepest being. Imagine the source of all truths, the Categorical Imperative, lies within the realms of Dreams. Imagine the key to that entrance lies only in the Island of Dreams. Imagine the dreams of Dreams. Imagine the Dream of all Dreams, that which shapes the route of your human Vortex. Imagine Sulphur, Imagine Ice. Awesome sight, awesome fright. Nice. Perhaps you should Imagine. Remember to Imagine. Imagine your Remembrance of Things Past, A la Recherche du temps perdu. Look forward backwards: Imagine hiding in your future. Imagine Inhumanity? Imagine Supra-humanity. Perhaps.

Another Star has fallen.
This is a good sign.

I must awake a different being.

Let’s Dance. Mori, the messenger of Time has arrived. I am leaving to live forever. Imagine.

Imagine I am learning to live forever. Imagine my image: An undying Being. Just Imagine.

Hmm, this rain shows no sign of abating. Perhaps I had better release Jason from the clothes-line. What then? Should I drown him like my brothers, and his? Or should he live on?

Perhaps

In the Island of Dreams: Singapore, gone wrong.
Really wrong.

May, May
You come to my room. Now!
I want to sleep. Now!

I will awake a different being. A Dieu.

Hey, ho, away we go!
There goes another busload.
Hey, ho, away we go!
Here comes another shitload.

Sunday, January 02, 2005

Poem for a rainy day

Bored shitless, waiting for rain to subside.
To? Questioned? Somehow I feel an insight
Awaits the eager eruption of sorts.

Mind mined with mimes and neighs, my mind minds mine.

A little groove returns, timely discords,
Sounds of Wonders, sounds of highs, wonder if
and Eve will if. Current. Blest, take me, thief.

Sanctions undone by a blessed fate, teach.
Creations succumb on blessing's plate, which
Aimless arcades sway with the arcane one
Fused unloving, forgiving, the night's done.

Underscore an overscore, and wilt, down,
Hindsights, oversights, foresights the blinds crown
Glorious regents upon Mandalay.

Take me to the sun and the day. _____. Kneel.

The Chorus resounds to the Tune of Day
Rhythms of Prose beat. Beat Beat. Awkward clips.
Amazed, aloof, time of day. Six. One. _________

Res _____ Dead ______ Com______ Help ______ Down _______
Click Click Click Click Click click click. click ______ click.
Knock, click, click, knock, when will this ever stop!

Calm breeze, sadly ceased. Compose, decompose
Banal intruders in a needless cause.
I think I know more than you think I know.
Crush, deluge of weak paint fall. All, farce, Force.

Imprints, leave imprints. You beseech, implore.

An everlasting struggle to the Call.
Whose? Yours? Mine? The same? You say, the same way
As you always have said. Unchanging, stay.
Gliding away to that new you, newly

you

never

you

us

needless

thus.

Saturday, January 01, 2005

GOSH!

Gosh... I've succumbed to peer pressure and started my own blog. Giioiosh. Really hope I will not degenerate into some stereotypical attention-seeking, wallowing-in-self-pity, whining-injustice-in-the-comfort-of an-air-conditioned-room, describing-everything-from-what-they-did/ate/wore/thought/said/saw-during-the-day blogger. Ooops. You've had to be a no-lifer, or a great friend of mine (who has to has no life anyway), if you are reading this blog. Save your life, save your time. Go out and play, and click that nice red X on the upper right of your screen right away. Or contradict myself and yourself: While you are here, make the most of it. Leave some comments and I'll read them when I feel insecure. If you hate this blog, blame Luyang (http://alifealitbythetruth.blogspot.com/). If you like it, feel free to rain praises on me and wax lyrical about it to all your friends. Will update this blog only when I feel insecure (which my close friends know as perpetual). Watch this space.

Le flaneur in the Dystopian Flanerie

Capitalist urban societies have been presented by popular media in two lights: The Utopia and the Dystopia. The Utopian city celebrates the diversity of its cultures, the organization of its cityscape and its economic structure, and the wealth and comfort of its space sets alight the infinite possibilities of humanity. The Dystopian city scrutinizes the hollowness of the individuals and the cultures, the entrapment of the diminishing space, conflicts and madness of its inhabitants, and the erosion of its humanity by the daunting cityscape.

Popular media in the last century have devoted much of their resources in depicting urban life, and have presented it in contrasting lights. Films, for example, ranged from the dark representation in Fritz Lang's Metropolis, to the violence in Stanley Kubrick's Clockwork Orange or David Fincher's Fight Club, to the innocent expression of love in Charlie Chaplin's City Lights, and the comical desperation for relationships in Woody Allen's Manhattan. This article, however, will focus on the Dystopian perspective of the Urban from another media text, that of Popular Fiction.

While cinema has captured and enraptured its audience with its visual representations, books have had a significantly longer relationship with the masses, and serve as perhaps the best documentation of history. Furthermore, books interpellate their audience through a textual narrative, rather than a visual one, which forces the reader to create a mental conception of the dystopian landscape, rather than interpret that which is created by filmmakers. This representation is far greater pronounced than that which is visual, as it encompasses the situation in context with the general narrative, the characters, and represents the totality of the landscape synchronized with the imagination and experiences of the reader, which creates an effect arguably superior to that of the experienced world. The choice of books and writers is critical for this analysis, and will focus on canonical writers, both western as well as non-western, who have provided the perspectives of Urban Dystopia prior to the age of the cinema.

Literature portraying the Dystopian city usually employs the perspective of the Flaneur, or Flaneuse, to represent the city. The Flanerie, be it set in Moscow, Paris, Beijing, or a fantastic city, is panoptic, stifling and hollow, with the flaneur, being supra-human, the only disengaged and conscious party in the materialistic masquerade. The Flaneur, as defined by Walter Benjamin (in Yue, 2003), is focused on the spectacle of life on the streets, in the arcades, and modernity is embalmed into the mind of the Flaneur at 4 kilometers per hour. At the turn of the 20th Century, the tortured Czech-German poet, Rainer Maria Rilke (1964) described the spectacle of life on the Parisian walkways as revolting, and lamented the impending death of Life despite the "lively" activity on the streets. Rilke opened his "The Notebooks of Malte Laurid Briggs" with this observation: "So then people do come here in order to live; I would have sooner thought one died here. I have been out. I saw: hospitals. [...] The street began to smell from all sides. A smell, so far as one could distinguish, of iodoform, of the grease of pommes frites, of fear. All cities smell in summer." Rilke's emphasis on the stench in his opening paragraph depicts his contempt of the cityscape encapsulated in its smells. The iodoform represents the sanitarized environment in which its inhabitants dwell in, while the grease and the french fries represents the working class lifestyle which he deemed culturally simplistic, and the fear as the primary motivation of the Parisians subjected to the daunting Le Corbusier wonderland they dwell in.

The panoptic environment of the Dystopian City is an issue which has been further developed by later writers, most notably Aldous Huxley and George Orwell. In “1984”, Orwell's society is urbanized, and centers around a "Big Brother" system of control over its inhabitants (Orwell, 2000). The subjects live in fear, and will gradually become soulless and hollow if they did not rebel. Huxley (1964) emphasized the theme of Hollowness in his “Brave New World”, and captures a vivid account of controlled minds and controlled lives. Control is a major urban issue, as urban societies are deemed to be the liberated, and thus free, but the inhabitants of urban spaces are controlled by the politics, economy, and geography of the environment. Space becomes scarce as cities develop, and the structures, both physical and metaphysical, become cells which imprison the inhabitants. Surveillance is everywhere, and as portrayed by Huxley and Orwell, the closest kin and friends are secret agents propagating the ethos of urban society, resulting in the conformity to Bourgeois, mass-produced cultures and lifestyles. Cultural jammers, therefore, are the rebels of the system, and are the ones who are deemed liberated.

The Dystopian city bears another hallmark which is often portrayed in popular fiction, that of a materialistic society. Emile Zola demonstrates his resentment with his many crafted short stories shedding light on Paris in the late 19th Century. In "The Thin and the Fat", Zola (2003) describes the scene of Paris at sunrise as the “preparations of the great daily orgy”, which “for a paltry copper the passers-by would purchase a glimpse and a whiff of springtide in the muddy streets”. The Materialistic landscape provides the opportunity for a Flaneur to scrutinize the inner sanctums of the city, and examine its decadence. Oscar Wilde's Flaneur, the protagonist in "The Picture of Dorian Gray", in his most lucid moments, observes the urban landscape of London as that of comprising “black-shadowed archways and evil looking houses” filled with “drunkards chattering to themselves like monstrous apes”, wild women, and “grotesque children huddling on doorsteps” (1994). Virginia Woolf (1996) highlights the materialistic Londoners as pretentious, and their behaviours, contrived. Her protagonist, Mrs Dalloway, paints a ridiculous picture of the vanity of the British middle class with their fur coats on an open top omnibus on a warm day. The contrived nature of the urban cities led to the formulation of Samuel Beckett's famous opening line in Murphy (1957), “The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new”, where the newness and the renewal of life in Dublin is far removed, leaving caricatures of half-insane inhabitants seeking a tragic-comic end to their inconsequential lives, which duly happens in the manner that the city deemed fit.

Fashionable Western cities such as Paris, Dublin or London are not the only setting of a Dystopian City. Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s Moscow, in “Notes from the Underground”, contains the inhabitants of the city mired in abject loneliness and hopelessness. Jorge Luis Borges, the Argentine, develops his fetish for the labyrinth in urban South America. His nightmarish vision of the city, portrayed in the allegorical “The Immortal”, led the Flaneur in the story to describe the city as “so horrible that its mere existence contaminates the past and the future and in some ways jeopardizes the stars”. Lu Xun’s Urban China is no different, and in his various short stories, he has portrayed Chinese cities as a farcical theatre of stupidity and injustice, which empties the souls of the common man.

Cultural representations of the Urban Dystopia have been heralded and presented to its audience for centuries, and recent media texts have heightened this awareness to a new degree. The efficacy of such portrayal is of interest to some, while others adopt a more resigned attitude towards these portrayals, while the majority is generally apathetic towards this Dystopia, preferring to remain as cogs in the urban machinery. Instead of celebrating or criticizing the Urban Dystopia, the inhabitants or the media texts’ representation, more fundamental issues need to be addressed by text writers before launching head-on into the production of such texts. Lu Xun offers a perspective, a dilemma perhaps, which would serve these writers well as they endeavour in their portrayal of urban life, a topic close to the hearts of many:

“Suppose there was an iron room with no windows or doors, a room it would be impossible to break out of. And suppose you had some people who were sound asleep. Before long, they would all suffocate. In other words, they would slip peacefully from a deep slumber into oblivion, spared the anguish of their impending doom. Now let’s say that you came along and stirred up a big racket that awakened the lighter sleepers. In that case, they would go to a certain death fully conscious of what was going to happen to them. Would you say you have done those people a favour?”

References

Beckett, S. (1957). Murphy. Grove Press: London.
Borges, J. (1998). Collected Fiction. Viking: New York.
Dostoyevsky, F. (1992). Notes from the Underground. Dover Publications: New York.
Huxley, A. (1964). Brave New World. Bantam: London.
Lu, X. (1990). Diary of a Madman and Other Stories. University of Hawaii Press:
Honolulu.
Orwell, G (2000). Nineteen Eighty-Four. Penguin: London.
Rilke, R.M.(1964). The Notebooks of Malte Laurid Briggs. W.W. Norton & Company:
New York.
Wilde, O. (1994). The Picture of Dorian Gray. Penguin: London.
Woolf, V. (1996). Mrs Dalloway. Wordsworth: London.
Yue, A. (2003) Shopping in Interpreting Everyday Culture. Martin, F.(ed.). pp.124-131.
Arnold: London.
Zola, E. (2003). The Fat and the Thin/La Ventre de Paris. Lightning Source Inc: London.