When things fall apart

We put together
Things that are not supposed to be there
Nothing is surer
Than Death the Barber

The Dreamers; Innocents

Vitality comes from youth, which is fueled by its immense power to dream. But like what Ernest Hemingway once said of F Scott Fitzgerald, 'His talent was as natural as the pattern that was made by the dust on a butterfly's wings. At one time he understood it no more than the butterfly did and he did not know when it was brushed or marred. Later he became conscious of his damaged wings and of their construction and he learned to think and could not fly any more because the love of flight was gone and he could only remember when it had been effortless. (A Moveable Feast, 1964) 'When people talk to us about others they are usually dull. When they talk to us about themselves they are nearly always interesting.' (Oscar Wilde) Mr. Hemingway, who was merely a phenomenon of the age no more than Mr. Long Hair is so, shouting profanity to get attention, is never interesting except in A Moveable Feast when he talks about himself. He wrote very beautifully about Fitzgerald, no matter how far wrong about Fitzgerald he was. Youth is our butterfly wings that we do not cherish until they are marred or brushed. What is left is the memory of once having spred one's wings to taste the wind.

I feel sorry for those who wouldn't even spread their wings. Even for those who do, they spread them gingerly as if they were ashamed of their feathers. Those glazed eyes staring at me in the classroom, those impressionable minds that shut off the world in the name of their church's god, hurt me a good deal. Wings that will never spread. An astounding lack of imagination. Those who shout back at me during my lecture, those who smoke during the breaks, are stretching their feeble wings. But still, a bit too gingerly. too gingerly.

She handed me the film. I like her for being in love with films. deep into them. skipping classes and dozing off 3 mins into my speech, a sure sign of genius. spreading her wings. but still, all too gingerly: 'I love the cinematography but I don't really agree with what they do in the film.' Utterly disappointed. So after all she doesn't know about her wings... and won't take flight.

The lack of imagination is inherit in Hong Kong throughout generations since stone age. Whatever bits and pieces of imagination left in their minds are squashed into pulp and channelled to monetary concerns. Now life has got a little better than the 70s people embrace anything foreign for romance. Rechechez du temp perdu, anything British inspires nostalgia, 'The Beverly Hills' selling European, and by the way, non-existent, life-style to the very rich. A skinny Euraian with an evil twist at the corner of his lips marrying a busty Eurasian chick in Prussian military uniform. Grotesquely foreign. It's not like the Japanese who admirably subjugates things foreign for their own use. They dare hire a white trash to dress up as a priest to host their wedding in a fake church in a shopping mall. Right in their faces. A spit at Caucasian imperialism; a spit at Christianity. How glorious. How transcendent. I would love to live to see the day when Hong Kong people can summon up that courage to respect the aesthetic framework in things, chew the juice out and spit the sludge, like what the Japanese are doing.

'I don't agree with what they are doing in the film.' What kind of moral judgement is this on a work of art? They are not even qualified to judge arts. Hello Kitty bastards. Betollucci's The Dreamers showed exactly what Hong Kong people don't have. Brains. Fucking genetic degenerates.

Imperialism never ends. part of the DNA blueprint. We are forever subjugated. Girls that dig French guys. Wish they were just going for the bigger dicks. Hell no. They are going for the romance. L'air. Le culture. Le French shrug. Le fucking 'Je ne sais quoi' slacker attitude. "Becasue they are more 'gentlemen-like'", like Chinese guys were barbarians.

Nationalistic? a fucking freckled bowl-cut slit-eyed snub-nosed buck-teethed patriotic ching? Hell no. After taking up the cursed RP accent, I was wondering... what other cultures should I adopt next? Hollow. Utterly hollow. Whatever that is hollow needs to be filled. We are cunts that yearn for foreign dicks.