An Ode to Entanglement & Modigliani Suite

Ode to Hands
(written by Halina Poświatowska, translated by Anna Gąsienica-Byrcyn)


Greetings to you my palms, my grasping fingers, and my finger smashed by the car door. My X-rayed palm looks like a sprained wing, like a tiny piece of bone drawn by its own contour. My left hand's ring finger once decorated by a band is widowed now, deprived of its adornment. The one who gave me the ring long since has no fingers. His arms are woven with the tree's roots into one.

My hands have so often touched the frozen palms of the dead, and the warm, strong palms of the living. They know how to caress unusually by touch losing the space that separates existence from existence, and heaven from earth. My hands knowing the pain of helplessness cling to each other like two frightened birds, homeless, blindly seeking everywhere the trace of your hands.

the body of my garden
woven from the living and painful branches
cries at night
recalling the down of birds' wings
the moon's face wet among the leaves
it peers into a nest full of absence
the green fingers quiver
clenched in the throat of the wind
dawn

the seeing fingers dance
on black and white keys
I greet them with my breath
with my hand I touch the lips
with my smile I bring to life
the colors and I use the most beautiful of them
to write in red blood: myself

in our eternal departures
on outstretched wings
we are ever closer
to each other and earth

you are my hand
I am your hair
and that shadow behind us
is neither this nor that

the shadow—our united lips enclosing
all-
embracing
both love and death

I broke off the bough of love
I buried it in the earth
and look
my garden has blossomed

one cannot kill love
if you bury it in the earth
it grows back
if you toss it into the air
it grows leaf-like wings
dropped into the water

it flashes with gills
immersed in the night
it shines

so I wanted to bury it in my heart
but my heart was home to my love
my heart opened its heart's door
and it rang out with song from wall to wall
my heart danced on my fingertips

so I buried my love in my head
and people asked
why my head has blossomed
why my eyes shine star-like
and why my lips are brighter than the dawn

I wanted to tear this love to pieces
but it was supple it entangled my hands
and my hands are bound with love
people ask whose prisoner I am 

*To read more of Poświatowska's poetry, visit here.

Georgia O'Keeffe — Hands, 1919
Alfred Stieglitz (American, Hobokan, New Jersey, 1864-1946 New York)
via The Metropolitan Museum of Art

 

Poetry Feature: Disbelief, Women, Minority, Periphery

Thirteen of my poems, including five pairs originally composed in Chinese and later translated into English (for most with a very long gap of time in between), are featured in Peripheral Surveys' beautiful autumn anniversary edition: Disbelief, Women, Minority, Periphery. Some of my readers (any of you out there...? ;p) might have already come across these poems in my little blog here, but the set is presented in such a visually aesthetic manner and the journal itself is a rich literary and artistic gem to delve into; hence I am linking it here to my poetic-oneiric (barely awake) space. My poetry is here. I have also written some notes on the inspirations behind the poetry and process of my translations, which for me is very much like re-creating again, for a few of the Chinese poems featured in the journal. The notes can be found in my blog post here.

Kenro Izu, Blue series, Still Life 1119b, 2004 (via)

My dear poet-philosopher-musician friend Alain Minod shared this exquisite, musical beauty with me the other day. For me, music is salvation, it is paradise. As Schopenhauer once said, what distinguishes our aesthetic consciousness from the ordinary one is that it lifts, however temporarily, the veil of perception, or maya, and blesses us with glimpses of what is transcendent, what is eternal, what is real and true, the ultimate beauty and truth. In this sense, our aesthetic experience/consciousness is similar in its essence to meditation. How is life possible without music, when life is music...?

“Yet how strange a thing is the beauty of music! The brief beauty that the player brings into being transforms a given period of time into pure continuance; it is certain never to be repeated; like the existence of dayflies and other such short-lived creatures, beauty is a perfect abstraction and creation of life itself. Nothing is so similar to life as music.”

~Mishima Yukio

*See also Peripheral Surveys' archive of past issues.

吳爾芙情詩：Virginia Woolf's Love Letter

在腹語術的魔法下  星宿暈眩著小宇宙永世輪迴
每個人在此分此秒  皆經歷著一場屬於自己的小死亡儀式
精神層面的死亡  生理層面的死亡  情慾層面的死亡  藝術層面的死亡
詩層面的死亡  愛層面的死亡  哲學層面的完全死亡
吳爾芙筆翼的墨水  舌尖的墨水  指梢的墨水
蝕鏤著深邃雙瞳裡無止盡的哀戚
我的情人奧蘭朵啊  何時能奢望著再也不覓不尋不惦不戀妳/你？

*          *          *          *          *

Under the spell of ventriloquy, entranced, removed, constellations
Vertiginously dance and reincarnate through aeons of micro universe
In this moment, in this second, everyone is experiencing
His own Rite of La Petite Mort, belonging to no one but himself.
A little death spiritually, a little death physically,
A little death erotically, a little death artistically;
The little death of Poetry, the little death of Love, the little death,
Utterly, philosophically speaking.
The ink on the tip of Virginia Woolf’s pen, the ink on the tip of your tongue, the ink
On the tip of your fingers… Etching ceaselessly the deepest grief in your eyes,
Immeasurably, inconceivably. Ah, my lover Orlando,
When do I dare, to never again
Search for you long for you think of you infatuate
Over you?

梅蘭芳黑白青衣：Mei Lanfang’s Sepia Qingyi

若眼眸為靈魂之窗  手指則是道盡故事的獨舞者
穹蒼潤澤幻化  從世宗的雨過天青雲破處  徽宗的剔透冰裂玲瓏瓷
靛藍泛紫斑滲透著紋路  如血  如詩  如火  如花
到黑白影像中廣袤如墨的青衣綢緞  瀑布似流暢著水袖的樂音
空洞窗櫺與月華宣紙淺淺隱藏著洩漏不了的秘密
它卻為最美的絳唇  點綴出最美的頌歌

*          *          *          *          *

Mei Lanfang’s Sepia Qingyi

Should eyes be the window to the soul,
fingers are the dancers narrating all stories, all tales.
Ever-evolving hues of the sky:

From a morning sky after the rain, where clouds break,
ice-crazing of porcellaneous translucency,
where light filters through its celadon glaze,
purple veins of permeating sapphire—
Reminiscent of blood, of poetry ablaze, of paradoxically languishing eudaimonia;

To the vastness of qingyi’s silk in black and white,
coruscating like the darkest ink,
a cascade of singing melodies from the dancing water-sleeves—
breathing, conversing, ever-changing, ever-fixed…
Hollow flowers in the windowpanes, moonlight-swept paper drapes,
softly hide the secret never to be told, never to be known.
The secret that embroiders the most beautiful paean
from his most beautiful carnelian lips.

More on Mei Lanfang here...

Qingyi (青衣)：Guimen Dan (閨門旦) is the role of the virtuous lady. It is also known as Qingyi (青衣）or Zhengdan (正旦). Qingyi means 'green robes' in Chinese, although the term traditionally extends to the colour black. This type of dan characters used to wear black robes. Qing Yi are normally mature and sometimes married women. They may be rich or poor, young or of middle age, but they have to be mature women to fall under this category. Qingyi focus more on singing and they have little movement. Opera schools in China tend to have difficulty recruiting students for this kind of role, since it requires a good voice, good looks and a good height. The most famous qingyi of the last century was Mei Lanfang. Examples of Guimen Dan are Du Liniang (杜麗娘) from The Peony Pavilion (牡丹亭) and Wang Baochuan (王寶釧）from Wujiapo（武家坡). *Via: Wikipedia

some notes on my poetry translations...

奔馬

夢先於現實。
而純粹
似花，似血，似詩
，似枯腐前消逝的生。


Runaway Horses (Realistically Synaesthetic Purity)  

Dreams, a priori, then reality.
And purity
Resembles a flower, resembles blood, resembles poetry,
Resembles life, a priori, disappearing before decay.


Notes on Runaway Horses (Realistically Synaesthetic Purity)

The main inspiration behind my poem “Runaway Horses” was Mishima Yukio’s 奔馬 Runaway Horses, the second book in his tetralogy豊饒の海 The Sea of Fertility, Mishima’s final work before his ritual suicide (seppuku) on November 25, 1970, which he planned meticulously for at least a year with no one outside the group of hand-picked members of Tatenokai (楯の会, or Shield Society, a private militia in Japan dedicated to traditional Japanese values and veneration of the Emperor, founded and led by Mishima himself) having any indication of what he was attempting. Mishima discussed and wrote about seppuku extensively and in great details in Runaway Horses (but surely it was received, and intended to be, a work of fiction when published). The alternative translated title “Realistically Synaesthetic Purity” was given when I first translated this poem from the Chinese it was originally written in. Synaesthesia, meaning “a sensation experienced in a part of the body other than the part stimulated (in physiology)” or “the subjective sensation of a sense other than the one being stimulated. For example, a sound may evoke sensations of colour (in psychology),” is not something one usually experiences in daily life (our ordinary consciousness), but rather, is more likely to occur in an aesthetic experience (an extraordinary consciousness which distinguishes itself from ordinary consciousness in many of its metaphysical and epistemological characters).

Mishima’s Runaway Horses was the book which I enjoyed the least whilst reading his tetralogy – the most politically and socially oriented, and also the most scholastic and ‘academically complex’ style of writing. This book was almost too dry at times for me to recognise the literary giant and his artistic beauty which I fell so hopelessly in love with and has influenced me so much for so long. In this novel, Mishima left me no breathing space (something I crave and adore and need in literature). Nevertheless, the poem came to me a while after I finished all four books of The Sea of Fertility tetralogy, in a way that could not have been purer, simpler, like a flower blossoming at night with a faint, subtle and lingering scent. The feeling I had when naming my poem "Realistically Synaesthetic Purity" is that, I was overwhelmed from being over-stimulated in my eyes and my brain whilst reading Runaway Horses, but the sensation and purity I felt in my heart, from his heart, was realistic and not ‘transcendental’ or ‘idealistic’ (ideal, as opposed to ‘real’). Runaway Horses, albeit being a book on an area which I am not all that interested in, with its difficult words, with Mishima’s complicated, meticulous and formidable system of thoughts, the social and political notions and history discussed, was able to get through to me and make me feel its purity, simplicity and beauty in the end. I saw its heart. Its essence.

A priori: 先驗性, ‘determining something priori to their being given,’ ‘existing in the mind prior to and independent of experience,’ (antonym: a posteriori). I dedicate this poem, and in particular this line, to Mishima Yukio and his book Runaway Horses:
“And purity… Resembles life, a priori, disappearing before decay.”


*                    *                    *                    *


曉寺

(薰息，我執，唯識)

緣起於鏡花水月的無常
存活涅槃之花瓣間的阿賴耶識，似
剔透的純藍火焰蘊蓄
鏤花之詩

桃花心木質的鏤空雕花
在蒼白哀傷的殘月撫觸下
散發似水晶斷面般清明露華
濕漉而冷冽的香氛


Temple in Vijñaptimātra

(…incense, Ātma-grāha, Vijñānavāda)

Dependant arising, from the impermanence
Of mirrored flowers, of moon water
Exists ālayavijñāna between petals of nirvana, as if
Transparency of pure blue flames, and
Within which a filigree of poetry

Rosewood reliefs under caresses
Of pale sorrowful moonlight
Scent of dewdrops at dawn permeates, like
A crystal facet; the soaking, penetratingly
Icy perfume

Notes on Temple in Vijñaptimātra

Inspired by Mishima Yukio’s 曉寺 Temple of Dawn, my favourite book in The Sea of Fertility tetralogy, and perhaps my favourite of all his books and writings I have read, my poem “Temple in Vijñaptimātra” was also written originally in Chinese and translated into English quite some time later. Unlike “Runaway Horses (Realistically Synaesthetic Purity),” which I consider a rather abstract poem of mine, “Temple in Vijñaptimātra” appeared/arrived with imageries, sounds, smells, and words which alone might not mean much but present themselves as gemstones, paint colours and musical notes for me to create jewellery, paintings and songs. Independent and individual images to be made into a ‘moving and flowing’ film. That is how I usually write poetry. Having been influenced by Buddhist concepts since primary school when I first came across a writer whose prose is deeply inspired by Chan Buddhism, and given my love of words and ideograms (specifically Chinese), I fell in love with Buddhist terminologies in Chinese (and later in their original Sanskrit) for their sounds, their appearances, and the ways words are arranged. For me, they are in and of themselves, poetry, and always provide many inspirations.

Vijñaptimātra (唯識論): ‘Mere representation;’ the Yogācāra theory that the contents of everyday, unenlightened experience are merely a false superimposition upon actuality of dualistic concepts generated by the mind that prevent direct experience of reality as it truly is (yathā-bhūta). Some later forms of Yogācāra lend themselves to an idealistic interpretation of this theory but such a view is absent from the works of the early Yogācārins such as Asaṇga and Vasubandhu.
Ātma-grāha (我執): attachment to self
Vijñānavāda (विज्ञानवाद): 唯識宗, the Vijñaptimātra school of thought
Aālayavijñāna (阿賴耶識): The ālaya-vijñāna forms the "base-consciousness" (mūla-vijñāna) or "causal consciousness". According to the traditional interpretation, the other seven consciousnesses are "evolving" or "transforming" consciousnesses originating in this base-consciousness.
The store-house consciousness accumulates all potential energy for the mental (nama) and physical (rupa) manifestation of one's existence (namarupa). It is the storehouse-consciousness which induces transmigration or rebirth, causing the origination of a new existence.


*                    *                    *                    *


Decayed

birds fluttering feathers beasts secretly cringing
as if musk spreading in the mists astray, fading
then never a sound in Death/ nor breath/ not even heart
Death seals and stagnates the pale wax of light
in her mouth
as if a tooth-filing ceremony as if anaemia as if bleeding


One little footnote on Decayed…

*Tooth-filing Ceremony: The Balinese Ceremonies of Tooth-filing

The second part of human ceremonies for the Balinese Hindu life is tooth-filing. The ceremony is held when a child reaches adulthood, the purpose of which is to minimise sins – Anger, Envy, Greed, Arrogance, Drunkenness and so on. This ceremony must be performed prior to a child’s marriage or after the girl’s first menstrual period starts. Only 6 teeth should be filed for this ceremony – 2 eye teeth and 4 incisors of the top teeth. Tooth-filing is a very important ceremony for Balinese life, as it is believed that should the ceremony not be performed on a person, that person’s soul will be restless and never in peace when s/he dies. Those in tooth-filing ceremonies should dress in mostly golden yellow and white colours, symbolism of holiness. In Bali, Balinese Hindus believe in thousands of gods, and every single thing in the house has a spirit. They believe that there is a god watching over the place, and offerings are also essential to bad spirits. This is to give gratitude to the gods, and to the bad spirits for not disturbing their peace. Beautiful and exquisitely colourful ephemeral offerings seen everywhere on the island of Bali are made every single day as small offerings to thousands of deities and evil spirits, one of Bali’s sights that have always had my heart.



*Beautiful ephemeral offerings! One of the topics I enjoyed the most when I studied Southeast Asian art history/archaeology/material cultures in university. (More photographs from my travel to Ubud, Bali...)

願 Blessings

Between mountain and sea there is faith, 
Silent and without a word. 
Between the pagodas there is a prayer flag, 
Having you in its lingering heart. 
Between meeting and parting there is kismet, 
Ephemeral and forever-changing. 
Between you and me there is yearning, 
Wistfully haunting our souls and our hearts. 


In this life, on this path, I only wish to see you again 
Even if heavens collapse 
and earth 
enervates

*Thank you dear María for sharing this word and this image...

*  *  *  *  *


And here is the original lyrics in Chinese which I quickly translated into English above. For the(my) love of Faye Wong...


《願》


在山水之間 在佛塔之間 在聚散之間 在你我之間 
在山水之間 有一份信念 是靜默無言 
在佛塔之間 有一條經幡 是為你掛牽 
在聚散之間 有一劫宿緣 是無常善變 
在你我之間 有一縷思念 是魂繞夢牽 


此生上路 哪怕天絕地穿 只願途中 能再與你相見 


嗡嘛呢唄嚒哄舍


And leaving you with another kiss...

image via Cha: An Asian Literary Journal facebook page

 

Something old, something new...

When too much is not enough…

A gesture can initiate a tumultuously poetic universe
That silk tassel tickling along her spine
A jade disc resting on Kundalini’s sacrum
He covers her face with the black velvet of the night, of her hair
Pearls of the mountain, softly spoken,
Whispering songs to his muse, inside of his muse,
Melodies between the arches of two crescent moons
Vertebrae, ah vertebrae under translucent mousseline
Of her vein and of her skin
Of his heart and of

his poetry


*                    *                    *                    *


玉

蒼白，是血的原色與美學的逆鱗。
他舌尖的蓮消蝕一如
右頰的月光
聲音是時間與蛇的舞姿
交纏蜿蜒的連綴
而生存，歌詠著水波紊亂
殞落著無性之魅
猩紅，似卵與熱的曲線
錯誤的春花秋月
頹萎之靡交合在古印度的菱鏡
天人於是註定了五衰
水面下的墜
玉


Celadon

Paleness, the primary colour of blood,
aesthetics of one disobedient scale under the Dragon’s throat.
A single lotus on the tip of his tongue eclipses as if
awash with moonbeam on his right cheek.
Voices unfurl in the choreographed, lethargic wanting
between Time and Serpent,
movements interwoven of musical trills―
winding, meandering, murmuring.
And existence, an ode to unquiet rippling, to violent waters,
perishing allures of an androgyne.
Scarlet blood, resembling the curve of an embryo and of heat

I mistake those spring flowers and autumn moon
for the decadently beautiful unison mirrored in ancient India
And angels are thus destined to decline,
falling under the water surface.
Celadon


*                    *                     *                    *


死亡美學（獻詩三島之金閣）

戰後的廢墟，重建
赭色小提琴喤泣聲線
金箔剝蝕的蒸氣與躁動的香

月華清明塗抹石橋
一如滌淨生的 死亡的確知
我兀自佇立文字的金閣
美學修長的眼睫投影
蔭翳，光正自盡。

顫抖顫抖再顫抖，這齣劇本
與血的斑痕纏綿似水
海面痛苦地沉默
光，一如岩礫，一如陰影，光的自縊。

自縊的美學倫理糾結糾結死的似非而，是。
仁波切寂然誦經
呢喃破曉前刻精神與美的歸巢
逐步逐步，緊貼眼睫的哀悽

生的諷刺文體的，死
的潔白墓塚
光正瀉落一湖的私密，若水


Death of Beauty 
(dedicated to Mishima Yukio’s Golden Pavilion Temple)

Post-war ruins, reconstructing
Vocal lines of the ochreous weeping violin
Faded gold flakes steaming breaths impatient scents

The moon colours the stone bridge of dreams
As if she was certain of death, the death which purifies life
I stand alone, inside the Golden Pavilion of words
The long lashes of Aesthetics’ eyes projecting
Shadows, Light slowly takes its own life.

Trembling shivering and quivering, this play
Coos sweet nothingness to flecks of blood like water
Romancing
The sea, painfully in silence
Light, as if brusque debris, as if a silhouette, the
Suicide of Light

Beauty and the (im)morality of suicide, entanglement and love-making
Of that which seems wrong, of the wrong that seems right
Rinpoche’s silent chanting in solitude
Whispers the homing of spirituality and beauty
Minutes before daybreak
Step by step by step, sadness kissing my eyelashes

The satire of Life, of the
Perfectly white tombstone
Of Death
Light cascading down a lake of pearlescent
Secrets, like water


*                    *                     *                    *


奔馬

夢先於現實。
而純粹
似花，似血，似詩
，似枯腐前消逝的生。


Runaway Horses (Realistically Synaesthetic Purity)

Dreams, a priori, then reality.
And purity
Resembles a flower, resembles blood, resembles poetry,
Resembles life, a priori, disappearing before decay.


*                    *                     *                    *


曉寺

(薰息，我執，唯識)

緣起於鏡花水月的無常
存活涅槃之花瓣間的阿賴耶識，似
剔透的純藍火焰蘊蓄
鏤花之詩

桃花心木質的鏤空雕花
在蒼白哀傷的殘月撫觸下
散發似水晶斷面般清明露華
濕漉而冷冽的香氛


Temple in Vijñaptimātra

(…incense, Ātma-grāha, Vijñānavāda)

Dependant arising, from the impermanence
Of mirrored flowers, of moon water
Exists ālayavijñāna between petals of nirvana, as if
Transparency of pure blue flames, and
Within which a filigree of poetry

Rosewood reliefs under caresses
Of pale sorrowful moonlight
Scent of dewdrops at dawn permeates, like
A crystal facet; the soaking, penetratingly
Icy perfume


Vijñaptimātra (唯識論): ‘Mere representation;’ the Yogācāra theory that the contents of everyday, unenlightened experience are merely a false superimposition upon actuality of dualistic concepts generated by the mind that prevent direct experience of reality as it truly is (yathā-bhūta). Some later forms of Yogācāra lend themselves to an idealistic interpretation of this theory but such a view is absent from the works of the early Yogācārins such as Asaṇga and Vasubandhu. (via)
Ātma-grāha (我執): attachment to self
Vijñānavāda (विज्ञानवाद, 唯識宗): the  Vijñaptimātra school of thought; see  here for more
Aālayavijñāna (阿賴耶識): The ālaya-vijñāna forms the "base-consciousness" (mūla-vijñāna) or "causal consciousness". According to the traditional interpretation, the other seven consciousnesses are "evolving" or "transforming" consciousnesses originating in this base-consciousness.
The store-house consciousness accumulates all potential energy for the mental (nama) and physical (rupa) manifestation of one's existence (namarupa). It is the storehouse-consciousness which induces transmigration or rebirth, causing the origination of a new existence. {via}


*                    *                    *                    *


Purple Crystal and an Ancient Serpent

gilded mirage drunken placards
float over pale grapes
wine honey wax oil and
tequila
his liquid tongue is moving back and forth her neck
moving back and forth the frightening lustful constellation around her neck
spirals around groins / you are confined in wild humidity as a fish in raw pleasures
your hipbone a deranged dream
a turn-around a temperature a kiss
her sombre secret cave abstracting mythical beasts and clouds
heavens fall the petals whirling the heavens
falling falling fall and fall
popcorns’ crying holy wrath spirits’ blasphemy
Death of life of life of Death
dying a life of a hundred years’ loneliness
philosophy below her breasts


紫水晶與蛇

紙醉金迷白葡萄
酒，蜜，蠟，油，與
龍舌蘭。
水舌游移/ 頸項的星群悸悸覬覬
鼠蹊的盤旋/ 你是狂熱的魚水之歡
你的髖骨是一場靡亂的夢
一回轉身/ 一種體溫/ 一個吻
陰晦的私處饕餮雲紋
天花亂墜天 花亂
墜墜墜，墜。
爆米花哭泣天神微慍
死的生的生的死
生生死死百年孤寂
胸線以下的哲思


*                    *                    *                    *


Decayed

birds fluttering feathers beasts secretly cringing
as if musk spreading in the mists astray, fading
then never a sound in Death/ nor breath/ not even heart
Death seals and stagnates the pale wax of light
in her mouth
as if a tooth-filing ceremony as if anaemia as if bleeding


*                    *                    *                    *


Vertigo
(Memories from a subconscious nightmare...)

It is the most lavish fragrance, the most devitalising. Does it make me want to kill? Or does it make me want to breathe. I could as if smell the flushes of crimson, and then they paled my hearing into avalanching silences. The silence was so poisonous, so decaying, so huge and hopeless; eclipsing all that was morally good or vital to my health - ceaselessly. It was my angel, my angel with waxen wings. "Was ascension such an unreachable dream?" Asked my angel. It was such a dark night, so dark that it blinded me. It blinded everything. The incandescence of the deepest night had burned the last speck of sombre stars with a lurid smile of bitter sarcasm. This humid and luxurious beauty, this lavish and choking fragrance, brought my extreme disgust and happiness into life and married them with the witness of my very own eye. May I shed my tears, which would never again be produced artificially? Or may I burst out laughing hysterically? If only I could cry out with the slightest sadness. Now this fragrance has turned its own veins into the most ecstatic earthly joy that seems so very vague, and yet so very real. Now this fragrance has left the residue in me the deepest grief. Could I have ever tasted an emotion as sharp? Or am I creating my indifferent tears woven so meticulously into my words - a world that can only be sensed visually but blindly, and can only be conceived of with such a harsh sound by an avalanching silence. I was about to woo, to woo this devitalising fragrance. And I was about to kill, to kill my angel after all the pleasure of worldliness has decayed to its core.

And now, I hear the river flowing in my body, with liquid so dark and polluted that I can hardly distinguish it from the unbounded night and the deceptively purified dream I am in. I have accumulated all my energy just to feel the retardation and inadequacy in me again, yet again. And now I hear your voice, my dearest pantomimist. Now I hear your voice, singing my song for me. You have given me a qualm, a qualitative change, and I can not even ask you to stay, to see me through the whole process - the whole process of passing. Yesterday we screamed together. I could almost feel your etherealisation, so beauteous you nauseated me. I wish I could cry, and ascend to the heavenly hell you have been presenting to me over and over again. Until I can no longer mumble, will I be led into a perfectly muted world, where I can only see your white sand dune, where I can only feel the flow of your words and murmurs of your voice crawling back into my blood, where I can only touch every single sound of your decaying petals by visualising my own pantomime. Now I see you bleeding, the sweetest nectar. Will I dream on? Whilst you live on.

And the next second I woke up soaking wet.



Les Larmes de Jacqueline (Jacqueline's Tears) Op.76 No.2 / Harmonies du soir Op.68 composed by Jacques Offenbach (1819-1880) and dedicated to Arsène Houssaye.
The performance is by Werner Thomas with Münchener Kammerorchester and it's dedicated to Jacqueline du Pré.

煢煢, an old piece of mine

Thinking about translating this piece into English, written in the year preceding the Millennium. Or perhaps I will continue in Chinese... Something to contemplate/meditate/muse on, this final day of 2011.

09/28/99

煢煢


半圓形的天頂被一層月華光澤的膜緊緻地拉扯住，像一只充滿著水的氣球，虛擬著生腥的焦慮與一種無所事事的、完完全全脫離精神性的美與憂鬱。那個午后，是薄如蟬翼且裹上銀粉的新生的卵，適於討論命理與禪。雲以敏捷的腳步滑行於透明且虛弱的藍，泡沫似的溫順與漠然。青春其實是極度缺乏生命力的。在旺盛與浮躁之中貪慕假象的匱乏，而後需索從不曾或缺的旺盛；在柔弱的本質中渴求堅強與信仰，之後因對於軟弱愚蠢的不自覺與惑於自我宣稱的虛偽堅強而尋覓所謂謙恭溫潤的中庸。青春是僅只存活於對純粹的堅持下、一種具備了美卻不易碎的浪費。如果死的優雅與精神性建構了藝術中闡釋生命的美學，則生不過是為襯托死的一種附屬的存在。但是生命卻是無法磨滅的，即使蒼白而無意義，卻無止盡地散發出猩紅的血的氣味。印度神濕婆在宇宙的輪迴當中毀滅自己所創造的鏡花水月，而後使之重生，不斷重複操縱著生與死的轉輪；祂是否也感受到生命中那種匱乏虛弱的美，以及死亡中屬於生之投影的愛與信念？藍所象徵的嫌惡與非難，以清澈且充滿靈性的美存在於自然界的蒼穹。隅隅獨行的生，幾人在腐臭中仍吟哦走了調的聖詩，又幾人能擺脫所有倫常的帷幕而誠摯地憎恨與厭惡？然而這一切的思索總似時間過度充裕的青春所編織的蛛網，純白得美麗亦膚淺得軟弱。當青春終於被擺脫後，生命開始進入下一段對死複雜的戀慕和禁忌，與對消逝的水光緬懷的遺憾。

artwork inspired by a spider's web at the Setouchi International Art Festival, Inushima Museum, Japan (image via Winged Wheel's p.s. write soon!)

washi paper lantern (also via p.s. write soon!)