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A Hungry S(h)elf

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Whoever it is

Mary Shang

Occupation
merry-go-around
Lieu
Beijing, China
Centres d'intérêt 
Reading and reading plus everything else.
I feel most beautiful when reading, most mindful when dreaming. I'm forever young, so you'd better be the same.
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Where Else I've Been

If U Follow Me...

Mary has a little lamb...

Live decent life. Make nasty love.

Mindmap
27/07/2009

This night goes on

She dreamed a sea of gray hair,
She woke up in clouds upon a misplaced chair.
She felt the necessary vastness of her own sobriety;
No worries, not if the ship leaves the shore.
Who knows about sailing off the shore.

They say they bounce with dare,
Like heartless winners with a war to declare.
Dogs with uncovered wounds shell their dignity;
Go wild, soldiers of self-indulgence feel sore.
Who talks about life being a whore.

Who says what when, can't it be fair,
Shades lining up the lonesome town bear air.
The dreams of sensitivity leaf through a river of triviality;
Why bother, since every piece clings to one obscured core.
Who should stop the wind and ask again, for even more.
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Haven't

You are sound asleep,
I am wide awake.
A picture is held in my hand,
It is such a foolish thing for me to do.

It starts to cramp, my heart.
It feels numb, back from the start.
I realize a sensation of brokenness is becoming, as it is.
It just broke the heart, as it has.

She looks happy in the picture,
so happy in your arms.
A shock came when I stare,
at you kissing her,
Was it before or after you kissed me?

You look sweet in the picture,
So sweet that the blame has to be the other one's.
Let go. Let go. Let it go.
The other girl can be just like me.
She must have had the same laugh with you, as I did.
She must have felt the same warmth towards you, as I did.
She must have thought she's the special one, as I did.
She must have looked lost for a moment, as I did.

I know. I know. She knows too.

Turns out you've had it before you had it with this one.
Turns out this one always comes along too late.
Turns out there are many pages on your book.
Turns out she was just passing and realized it too late.
Turns out everything being said is true.
Turns out old stories still make fresh cuts.

I remember a long time ago,
When I saw the hurt in that girl's eyes.
I was holding a hand she once held,
Not so long ago.
I wished I was holding hers, instead of his.
She wouldn't look at me, wouldn't talk to me.
Her back was cold; her hair was soft.
Now I see it, in a new light.
Her back was not for me; her hair was not telling.

Girls, players are nothing but headless ants.
Don't let the sand get into your eyes; don't cry.
If not for us loving ourselves, who else would.
If not for us forgiving each other, who else would.
If not for us knowing and remembering all these dreams being had,
Who else would.





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20/07/2009

William Shakespeare

The bright day is done, and we are for the dark.
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The goodies

Attention now. March is approaching. Royal families are listening. High horses are passing. The conductor is in for full strikes. Kill 'em little pieces, 'em anonymity, and 'em triviality and ignorance.

Those sounds. The violin gets rightfully tense, leading the viola, the cello and the double bass. French horns do their duty just in time. Piccolo would like to play more, and English horn drags away its duration. Clarinet and Oboe dance mysteriously around. Trombone takes its time and stays patient. Organ moves ahead; a group of elephants complete their ritual.

And those names. Dimitry Sitkovetsky Academy St Martin in the Fields & Sir Neville Marriner. Yossif Ivanov. Concerto No. 2--Allegro Non Troppo. Stouffer Family. Debussy- Jeux. Philharmonia Orch.-Boulez.

They go soft, they go strong. They get angry, they get sad. They are together, they are scattered. They are real as pearls and obilivous as moon in water. They are you and they are still them. They are innocent days in childhood, and they never leave.

This can only be them, the classics by orchestra.

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15/07/2009

Leave me a note, please.

What is the dearest and most intimate way of communication possible? A handwritten note. It's a gesture caressing the heart, a surprise whispered into the ear, a peephole to somewhere you are kindly thought about, cared, worried, sought after by someone.

It can be nicely worded and carefully positioned, showing neat penmanship and good intention. Or it is written in a hurry, with misplaced punctuation and careless addressing. It might be out of pure necessity where help is needed or provided. It may scream with urgency, present an existing/coming situation, cause immediate reaction, provoke argument or appreciation. It is sometimes an expression of love or temper, confirmation or uncertainty, reassurance or doubt , ease or anxiety, compliment or disgust, beginning or closure. Other times it is a joke, a kick, a repute, a weather report, a doctor's warn, a routine reminder, a bank mail, a contact, a card with good wishes, a mirror for self-check, a tie to the past, an act paying back, etc. etc..

You reached everybody, please write me a note. I'll read it later again.


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10/07/2009

Finishing it?

5 pages are left unread with "The Orchid Thief." Then I get worried. I get intimidated. Of course reading a book means understanding it. Getting to its end means you are rewarded with a closure with your willingness to be involved in the world the author creates. Now I feel the author is ready to say something final, to make things permanent, and to make a statement or take a stand of some sort with this crazy head orchid grower. But I do not want this! I already have my ending for him, for the narrator, for the whole orchid charade. And it’s not going to be the same with what I feel the narrator thinks appropriate. So should I leave it without finishing the last 5 pages? Or should I abandon myself and let the truth be told?

I’ll wait till the sun sets and rises again.

 

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04/07/2009

I'm not there

Directed by Todd Taynes, it's a poem that you can watch and hear.
Like the first line of the film: A poem is a naked person. But a song is someone who walks by himself.

Beautiful and sensual words are sounded out under careless breaths and vulnerable lips on flame.
"And the cats cross the roof, mad in love. Scream into drainpipes, and it's I who am ready, ready to listen. Never tired. Never sad. Never guilty."
"The guilty undertaker sighs, the lonesome organ-grinder cries. The silver saxophones say I should refuse you. The cracked bells and washed out horns blow into my face with scorn but it's not that way. I wasn't born to lose you."

After Velvet Goldmine and A Home At the End of the World, this one was watched and acknowledged. They are literature heard on a screen, thoughts made from pulp-paper. People running with scissors always touch me; hearts stabbing at an open knife never undo me.
(One of the characters in the film reading from a novel, Perfume) "It's wrong to say 'I think'. One should say 'I am thought'. I is someone else. I am present at the birth of my thought. I watch and I listen. I draw a stroke of the bow. A symphony stirs in the depths, or comes with a leap to the stage. It began with waves of disgust and it ends--as we can't immediately seize this eternity--it ends with a riot of perfumes."


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She talks

Mind. It is something that is constant and cloudy.
Thoughts belong to a thin layer of tricks that mind plays.
Images. Images of you. The way you talk and laugh. The way I see it.
Losing me, you have my immorality.


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30/06/2009

WITAWITAR

This time finishing Murakami was a little weird: not much emotional upheaval nor psychological shock. He took the smoother path, a plain but real description of what he does for everyday life. As a memoir, it serves the purpose well enough. As an inspiring reading, it helps me (at least) come to terms with limitations and undefined potentials on each individual. The best (possible) way to treat yourself as something that breathes, thinks and changes things is to let yourself breathe, think and change things. His choice of not doing much is actually the highest level of doing.

Occasionally I read some parts several times before I interpreted his seemingly repetitive narration into a delayed and persisting motion that leads to well digested perception. He may not be the one that makes the best use out of fancy words and persuasions, but he does a good job in showing his own face at the right moment, reminding the reader of who’s talking now, not the voice from the commercial on TV, not the boaster, nor a copy machine printing a renewed edition of Shakespeare. He is and will be him, nothing more or less.

Then, the beauty of jogging is you can start any time, anywhere, with or without anyone else. He easily stays alone/drifted without feeling out of place (or sometimes he feels the need of it for the sake of looking normal), which does not mean he enjoys locking himself up. He looks out far enough to win over a worldwide audience with his writing, yet he’s able to retrieve into the inner voice that won’t have irrelevant noise interfere or manipulate it. He will not say to you, hey, let’s go to Mexico drinking Margarita. The stimulation he brews comes slow and forgiving, from someone that eats light and thinks straight.

 

After this book, I'm thinking I'll read more of his work in English instead of in Chinese (which I also loved). English is the language he prefers to use when he gives speeches abroad. It's also the language he reads many of his favorite authors in. I believe he feels his own ideas have been properly translated and conveyed in English, both written works and verbal speeches.

 

So basically, what he talks about when he talks about running? It's a borrowed title but I believe it's not out of his laziness or failure to find a better one. It resembles largely what he meant by writing this memoir; he is a Japanese born but international owned intellectual, which explains his cocktail-colored creativity and western flavored tolerance. Life itself is like a marathon route that allows everyone to participate, either with a set goal or with a leisure/fun-seeking attitude, that when finishing it you feel either with regrets or satisfaction, or with the anticipation that welcomes more to come. You will only need to have one principle to follow: do what suits you.
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27/06/2009

The Banjo Woman


My current state of mind can be described as: Abigail Washburn. I heard pieces of her singing every once in a while over the past 5 years and never found myself absorbed in it as I am now. When her voice flew out from a radio station one evening, I literally dropped the book I was reading and stared into space until the song was finished.  Later that whole night, I dug out her album and listened it through. I found myself greatly soothed and wide awakened. Even the song "The Lost Lamb" which I used to think to be pretentious sounded sentimentally positive and outreaching.

I guessed the reason. I may or may not need to say it out loud though. Abigail Washburn sings folk, electronic, in English, in Chinese, in her unique reverence to multi-cultural expressions. The melody she works with can be weird, fun, nostalgic or cruel. Listening to her songs calms down my nerves, makes me stop feeling guilty for not really doing anything at that moment, fills the empty cells floating in the air and most of all, strengthens a precarious sense of being. It perhaps sounds paradoxical, but I wish I can somehow push her voice out and pull it in at the same time. But of course she will only stay where she is, not one inch nearer or further. She came to Beijing in 2006 then to Sichuan in 2009, bringing her notion of being both traditional and global.

An official website: http://www.abigailwashburn.com/index.html
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23/06/2009

Thief a flower's moment

Happened to see some quite pretty pictures taken somewhere in Beijing. They are different flowers in bloom. There are yellow dots, purple petals, dark red tongues stretching out from inside of long blossoms. I tried to imagine the photographer's good feelings when he/she saw all these little wonders done by nature effortlessly and I could feel them too. Then I thought: only if you read "The Orchid Thief" by Susan Orlean. Not that plain pictures are not good enough any more after reading the story, far from that, it makes me want to stop at the sight of flowers and gather thoughts around them, trying to imagine the differentiated habitats they are from and the tons of unknown stories behind each type in existence.

That being said, those pictured flowers do look lifeless compared to what has been described in the book. It's based on a true story, a story about a frantic orchid lover and a whole world full of such frantic orchid lovers revealed with the author's years of following and documenting this insanely affected man. She is curious enough to dig up the wild, relentless soil that cultivates one of the most bewildering plants God creates. As she gets involved deeper, those crazy orchids start to haunt, to multiply, to swallow those who approach them then give out poisonous scent that lures the same people back.

I didn't realize what the book did to me until I saw these other photos of flowers taken under daylight. I would have loved their color and arrangements of their petals and maturing buds, if not for the thought about how those orchids encountered by orchids hunters in life-threatening woods would look in real. What adds to the attractions towards orchids, towards such writings on mysterious nature's ways of doing things is that, we human are doomed under it. We fight against it, fight for it, struggle not to do anything about it, or struggle on death-line in order to take the possession of it--whichever path we take to demonstrate, nature always wins.


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Out of sight out of mind

Thought I'd share this face since I've enjoyed looking at it today.
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22/06/2009

Are you rural or urban?

Or can you at all answer it without "provok(ing) a series of unconscious judgements." Quoted from an article It's All Too Beautiful by William Boyd on The Guardian. "The Wild Garden, Wilson lists some of the antitheses that 'town' and 'country' respectively embody: progress versus tradition; art versus nature; industry versus the contemplative life; reason versus instinct; strained sensibility versus sturdy common sense, bohemianism versus rootedness, and so on."

It is Battersea Park he's talking about. I easily feel envious towards someone that lives near park or natural scenes. The mere mention of names like Charles Dickens and Jane Austen platforms a contrast, in which grimy sky hovering crowded gray buildings opposes a scene with green pasture, wiry skirts and endless afternoon teas in open gardens. Oh, I just got the answer to the question. Go Urban Bohemian would be a perfect solution. Most likely, however, I might be one of those who totally build up their life upon modern convenience, then yearn for an imaginary simple and easy-minded nature they believe they'll find in the country, not knowing they may not be able to survive for a week and would purch up their lips simply because it is not the city.
 
I enjoyed his definition of a park. "Go to the park and play" sounds luxurious for a mind that settles in a habital body. I would have embraced anyone that says it to me, the same as a mouse being offered a wheel of fresh cheese, as if I can't have it otherwise. I've never really lived in/near a park environment; somehow I only managed to have courtyard fun instead. I feel I grow timid these days; showing up at a strange location alone becomes less easy and my body needs ligit reasons to travel long distance. There were times when I got punished for hidding at the neighor's backyard and missing meals, and when I didn't show up after school, and my Dad found me behind construction area absorbing in my sand castles at a point of calling the police. I have to hurry up, or I'll lose the child's nature in me forever.
 
"There were swings, a slide and a roundabout, a cricket field and football pitches, and the place fulfilled everything that the concept 'municipal park' could demand." Children't playground can be no difference than an adult's. In the parks in Japan, people are able to use them the sams way as they do at school, only with more focused mindsets and clearer intentions. The atmosphere encourages you to take part instead of just being a onlooker; you would otherwise feel out of place in this energy ball. "The park is a venue where you can kick, hit or throw a ball, cycle, skateboard or rollerblade, jog or ride -- a recreational sporting site, in other words. For me, a busy park on a hot summer weekend is one of the most unpleasant places a city can offer." It doesn't mean you are not allowed to seek out quietness on a shaded grassland; the park should be able to afford that. At the same time, it is also where stammering toddlers grow into men, romance unfolds into family, conflicts dissolve with directions being led further.
 
It starts each paragraph with one letter in alphabetic order which makes it a work with fancy. Strongly reconmmended. Read the origine by clicking the link above on the title of the article in 1st para.
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21/06/2009

Worth the waiting

So I eventually got hold of What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami in decent cover. Small, easy to hold and to read. Translated from Japanese by Philip Gabriel. Nothing else makes a better Sunday.
=>Interestingly enough, the colors are opposit with each other as you can see, the first being the one I have and the latter from online search, though not sure if it's also for the hardcopy.
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16/06/2009

Remembering the Mud Doll song on a rainy day

Today's rainstorm plus sudden pitch darkness at noontime reminded me of an old song, "Mud Doll (Ni wawa)". I remember it's at the end of an old cassette which contained 12 songs by allegedly nationwide popular children's choir. All other songs were about happiness of childhood, innocent times, and youthful hopes. Then came this one desperately sad song "Mud Doll", and it goes like: "Mud doll, mud doll, there's a mud doll. It doesn't have a Dad; it doesn't have a Mum. It can't speak." Then I got this image in my mind, that the mud doll is standing outside in the pouring rain, its body is shrinking down as the minutes go by. The song is going around in the background: "I would like to be its Dad; I would like to be its Mum. I will love it forever."
 
I start to wonder why they put such a cruel story in the end of an album full of love and goodness. Did they let out one bit of truth in the bag of adulthood after all? By ignorance or by design?

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11/06/2009

Since when I started to read such

And I'll Film It for YouTube.

Dad to little girl sitting on railing, watching sea lions: You fall down, that's it. If you fall down, I'm not helping you. (pause) And the sea lion's gonna eat you.
--Pier 39
San Francisco, California
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
How Pajama Bottoms Became Popular As Pants: Explained.

20-something guy: We do need to get jobs, but it's so hard to get ready in the morning!
20-something lesbian friend: What could you possibly have to do in the morning to get ready? You're a bro!
20-something guy: I always have to set my alarm three hours before I actually have to go.
20-something lesbian friend: You *can't* be serious. It takes you three hours to get ready for, like, class?
20-something guy, totally serious: No, it takes me three hours to get out of bed. After that I just walk out the door.
--Fordham Road, The Bronx

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

If It Weren't for Those Compromising Nudie Pics Of You with the Chalupa

Guy #1: (mumbles)
Guy #2: Well, maybe you need to be more white.
Guy #1: What are you talking about? I'm Mexican, you're white!
(pause)
Guy #2: Dude, you would make the best politician.
--Bathroom, UC Santa Cruz
California
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

He'd Just Gone Off His Meds-- Whew!

Girl: At first, I was really afraid he was cheating on me, but then I called him the next day and asked him where he was the night before...
Girl's friend: Well, where was he?
Girl: Oh, he was having drinks with John Lennon. I was freaking out for no reason!
--NewYork
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

New Yorkers Often Experience Culture Shock in New England

Four-year-old girl, dropping cracker on the floor: Oh, shit!
Mother: Um...no, honey. Not here.
--Steamship Authority Martha's Vineyard Ferry, Massachusetts
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Just Watch the Sundial, Honey

Teenage girl: Wait, so what time is midnight tonight?
--Punta Cana, Mexico
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Teen shopper to friend: I like hate math except for like...when I'm counting calories and stuff.

African-American father to five-year-old daughter: You see? That's why I send you to a Chinese school. Because those Chinese kids know how to do math. You gotta know how to do math if you want to make something of yourself. If I sent you to a black school, you'd just turn into a crackhead. If I sent you to a white school you'd turn into an asshole. But those Chinese kids, man, they know how to do shit.
--4 Train

Really drunk girl: I have to pee so bad! I almost peed on the corner, but then I remembered I don't have a penis.

Beatnik professor: The internet is only good for two things. Online banking is not one of them. If you online bank, then you're fucked for life. They'll steal your identity. The internet is good for porn, and for getting underwear on sale. Now, I know many people may find buying a brassiere online to be strange, but women do it anyway. Now, the internet is great for porn, but you can't do kiddie porn. If you do kiddie porn then they'll get you. We all know who they are.
--Queens College


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10/06/2009

Madonna of the Evening Flowers (Dream-after)

---by Amy Lowell

All day long I have been working,
Now I am tired.
I call:"Where are you?"
But there is only the oak tree rustling in the wind.
The house is very quiet,
The sun shines in on your books,
On your scissors and thimble just put down,
But you are not there.
Suddenly I am lonely:
Where are you?
I go about searching.

Then I see you,
Standing under a spire of pale blue larkspur,
With a basket of roses on your arm.
You are cool, like silver,
And you smile.
I think the Canterbury bells are playing little tunes.

You tell me that the peonies need spraying,
That the columbines have overrun all bounds,
That the pyrus japonica should be cut back and rounded.
You tell me these things.
But I look at you, heart of silver,
White heart-flame of polished silver.
Burning beneath the blue steeples of the larkspur,
And I long to kneel instantly at your feet,
While all about us peal the loud, sweet Te Deums of the 
Canterbury bells.

PS. This is a tribution to my recent dream, a Madonna in my dream. She travelled a long way to see me, just wanna make sure I'm all right. That I'll live. I felt she's not one woman but hundreds of them. Her face is a multiple refletion. Then I woke up. I didn't know anything about her--who she is, where she's coming and going. But thoughts about her just won't be pushed away, and every time my mind lingered over on her edgy and cold face, I felt a thumping in my heart, as if a blunt knife just went brushing at it. 

It's made me miserable knowing she's going to leave in the dream. She never looked back, now that she's made sure I'll be all right; her red hair was burning in my eyes. And with such an emotion I read the above poem and, somehow, suddenly, couldn't understand anything any more. 
 
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02/06/2009

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.
 

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01/06/2009

The Reading Shade in Summer

Recently, time has been very careful living each day. It barely makes any noise or leaves any trace. It shuts down the blinders, let down the curtains and turns into its own resource. Sky lifts itself up further and further away as high summer approaches with whiter colored boats made from cloud cottons. They let little kids jump on and play games, keeping occasional curious birds and floating dust away with their soft feather fans. Time and sky slip through and into each other indistinguishably and whisper secrets into each other’s ears, laughing good-humoredly at earthly creatures’ silly and paranoid thoughts echoing on the universe’s wall.

 

The fictional story Never Let Me Go by British author Kazuo Ishiguro must have done something to me. I feel being led into a conspiracy; the sharers and carriers of it mean no harm but end up breaking all the eavesdroppers’ hearts. I could have told you the basic plots and given you an outline, but why would I do that to spoil a good surprise created by the author with such intrigue and dignified rituals? Borrowing a few lines from the ending of a review from Times: “Not since The Remains of the Day has Ishiguro written about wasted lives with such finely gauged forlornness (like that novel, this one harrowingly concludes with someone weeping on a sea shore). That he contrives to do so in a narrative crawling with creepy frissons is remarkable. Not the least out-of-the-ordinary feature of this novel, with its piercing questions about humanity and humaneness, is the way it affectingly moves past gothic shudders to a wrenchingly desolate ending.” This review by Peter Kemp is among my favorite ones and I strongly suggest reading the book before taking a ride with it, so as to be able to appreciate it more. Another review by M John Harrison at The Guardian is even more detailed and written as a mini reading of the original story, which only makes me glad to have read the book myself.

 

Look, there are all kinds of reviews and comments on things that are better written by higher authorities. What can't be over looked is the fact that as a random pick, a book happens to change these long quiet hours in my universe during which I read it. It was able to lead my mind off the straight line where it’s been lingering for too long and show it this huge open garden where similar life does contrastingly different things, where common sense is not to be trusted, where blank pages are filled with imaginary fairies that make ordinary people shine like stars.

 

So this is what it’s about. Every single effect a book makes on each reader adds to its actual value; becoming someone’s everyday item materializes the book’s existence. Writers write; readers make them heard. Now I can say, those hours in my life, I was able to spend them in a worthy way reading Never Let Me Go.

 

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31/05/2009

Stealt 33 minutes' sunshine

    *^.^*   
Some days earlier. I took a walk around a walking district busted with people exhibiting their dreams, love affairs, high hopes and false assumptions with anonymous. The sun was prepared to sneak out of sight when I just started strolling. Every bit of sun spots was occupied with wide open eagerness from chatty people who were making the best out of the last promised tickling beams.

I gave up trying to find a seat in the bright side, settling for the more obscure space in a greenery garden in front of the sandwich shop C. Just as I took a second sip of the drink they brought me, a sharp exchange of light and darkness took place so fast that I didn't realize what was happening at first. I felt like sitting under a spotlight on an obscured stage--the table was suddenly lit up by a single string of sunlight reflected from the big glass window of a building not faraway from the corner where this sandwich shop was located. When it reached my table, the beam expanded wide enough to cover the whole table and fight back the grayness that surrounded me earlier. 6:32pm, who would have known the sun decided to play a magician's trick before it took off for the day. I saw the dancing dust and smelled the baked dryness in the air; it even felt like early noon again.. 

With a dramatic turn, at 7:05pm, the light took all the visibility away and pushed the lurking night color back up to my face.




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30/05/2009

Hehe~


Outrageously Huachi
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It Happens This Way



Days are long, tiny budding flowers dancing in the sun.
Full booths of drinks and laughter, bathing hearts that are giant bearer.
I could not find any place to settle and be.

Nights are flannel, wavy liquid music pouring into the channel.
Dark notepads of thoughts and relent, dictating sounds that are too silent.
I would not carry any lie to cover and redo.

Feelings are special, whooshing life-car rushing to the essential.
Vast senses of scars and flame, burning skies that are minds' slave.
I should not mercy any weakness to remorse and hide.

Love is fatal, hatred brutal,
We exist with both elsewhere crucial.
There are worse prisons than words,
Even balloons are built to last.
When our fearless faces sink back to sand,
Our mother will be presented with pearls on a strand.

---Writing from a dusted pen, @ home

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