april time past and time future

of all my notebooks, my favourite is the hard-cover, unlined, black-cloth-bound from Borders. they disappeared from the shelves after the christmas i bought it, and i spotted them again last saturday - i shall buy ten and use one a year. it's very sturdy and the size of a novel, i carry it wherever i go and scribble everything inside, from observations and ruminations and to-do lists and phone numbers to book titles and their call numbers. short of losing them on the streets or in a fire, they're more reliable than blogs. i look forward to reminiscing these youthful times decades on, and they're intimate mementos that i can leave to my loved ones when i die. its this reason i always wished my grandparents even parents kept journals - i know nothing about them and their lives. (aside: why are moleskine notebooks so expensive? they're like diors of notebooks sans spring/summer-autumn/winter transmorgifixions.)

one innocent afternoon a hundred years from now, a distant great-grand-nephew of mine, suffering utterly from the ennui of his school vacation (hopefully he's a student of history, philosophy and english literature) would stumble upon my pile of essays and journals and other assorted letters in an obscure storeroom of his granddad's house, and be curious enough to reconstruct my life. stoked by his fecund imagination and whatever little, incomplete details he could glean, a story - never mind it wouldnt be wholly factual - would come into being, that could only become possible from the both of us colliding fatefully along the plane of transcending time.

背影是真的人是假的没甚麽执着
一百年前你不是你我不是我
悲哀是真的泪是假的本来没因果
一百年後没有你也没有我

there is intelligence and there is intelligence

phillip and i had affixed yesterday evening for a phone conversation regarding my research topic. in a last-minute scramble and flipping through his books and articles, i couldnt help but be impressed by his elegant prose and august erudition; a regretfully dying breed in today's publish-or-perish MacUnis. speaking to him work-proper, after these years, revealed (and reminded) how little i know, so much i was half-afraid he'd get bored with me and think me unworthy and subsequently and politely decline to supervise.

there is always this debate between art and utility, although which being the superior entity is obvious. an analogous example/argument could be that flair presupposes technique. some write all technique and little or no flair; some write bereft of both, what remains being wanton, spineless masturbation; and the rare one glides on incendiary sparks of both. while intelligence underpins technique, talent underpins flair. of intelligence, it is harder to think you stupid (not impossible obviously, though mostly are facetious in delivery), than it is to think you unintelligent. the difficulty of quantifying intelligence has often been flagged by the marginalised as both a defence and a justification... of their own fatuity. the dodginess of yardsticks true to an extent, it is nonetheless unconvincing. you need not descend to specificities to gather one is better than the other. it is similarly unnecessary to resort to (and sometimes should not be) referring to the number of academic accolades amassed - or for that matter, how much knowledge you possess. what would be more expedient a method, would be to excavate how your mind process information - in speed, in depth, and in scope. while intelligence might be protean in nature, the potentiality of it, though harder to detect, is ironically a surer indication. an example might be how you need not write intelligent matters to exhibit and prove it. be the output serious or facile, intellectual or sentient, heightened or popular, exalted or every-day, the thought-processes behind these, of quality or otherwise, are the determinants and constants. by and large however, a good mind will show itself unexpectedly and effortlessly; but if you have nothing, then nothing will show other than torturous tripe. it is quite idiotic to be embarrassed by your cerebral lack - though the tendency to, in a society eager to show off and to impress, is compelling - for only from an acknowledgement of this deficit is where knowledge, with its infinite supply and possibilities, can and shall come. and as it were, the antitheses of intelligence are neither ignorance nor stupidity - they are indignance, petulance, and obstinacy.

impoverished students . struggling writers . dishevelled poets

the cold and grey of this morning were unexpected, this being april. it reminded me very much of those shivering and wet melbourne mornings i used to trot through to get to class, snug in my trusty levis and woollen jumper, invigorated by the wintry air. i had lived behind lygon street, the italian alcove famous for its cafes and restaurants. very few things change at lygon, though the crass and the vulgar (e.g. starbucks) have lately begun their invasion. but most of the cafes that had sprouted along it after the war still stands, run by the same quibbling italian families dashing around with pasta and pizza and shots of expresso. and then of course, there are the students and artists - keeping alive the spirits of generations of impoverished melbourne university students, ex-students, faux-students, angry-students, refuse-to-graduate students, struggling writers, dishevelled poets, apprentice philosophers. all who have, over the decades, indelibly left their artistic and intellectual marks - along the sidewalks, by the shopwindows, in the coffee cups. one could almost still hear echoes of their debates, conversations, commiserations. echoes, because like the invasion of fastfood and fastcoffee, so too the harlequin yuppies have begun their intrusions. but it is of course, always easy to pick out these philistine poseurs. the genuine lygon intelligentsia and literati are somehow invariably unkempt and beggared - there they would sit, swigging strong coffee, scribbling into unintelligible notebooks, peering furrowed brows into tattered copies of camus, kerouac and kafka, exhaling cigarette smoke and discarded thoughts, cogitating with the auburn evening as it tanned into the night.

why should i be a corporate fuckwit?

sometime last year when i had this ascetic epiphany was also when this soulless country, with its obscene applause for relentless material acquisitions and standing ovations of skyscrapers do not impress me anymore. given a choice i'd live and work in academia the rest of my life. there is nowhere else i can obtain the intellectual stimulation i crave, and the lofty promises of the vacuous, avaricious world outside have ceased to arouse me. why do i want to be reduced to a pathetic cog in that machinery forever whining about unreasonable bosses, retarded colleagues, and dead-end jobs, where nobody thinks they're ever paid enough yet would never admit to their own ineptitude? why do i want to stuff myself in a claustrophobic panopticon of an office never seeing sunlight and slogging endlessly for yet another paycheque only so i can lust after the next ephemeral bourgeois fandangle, when i can take daily strolls through intellectual bohemia ruminating politics and philosophy, reading the masterpieces of literature, and penning treatises that would always be my name? perhaps i wont be as productive or wealthy as you, but why should i want to be? how many nonsensical self-help books do i have to read and next-door-lims to compare before my esteem and existence can be validated? how many ipods, nokias, powerbooks, volkswagens and condominiums do i need to be happy in this life? i cant take with me any of these when i die and i would rather people remember me as someone who contemplated the world and life, than as someone who could only afford prada and a car.

besotted with form-lit for some time now

besotted with form-lit for some time now, and have attributed it to simply the beauty of elegant, heightened prose itself. winterson, woolf, d.h. lawrence, who made me forget this dull world breathed. then there were the few books due to be returned tomorrow - essays by georges perec, susan sontag, roland barthes - all whom i havent properly sat down to keep company. and this line from barthes's writing degree zero glowed (from the chapter "is there any poetic writing?"): "the word shines forth above a line of relationships emptied of their content, grammar is bereft of its purpose, it becomes prosody and is no longer anything but an inflexion which lasts only to present the word." it was a remarkable sentence! barthes literally, literarily, conjured the elements he was arguing about - the poetic and prosodic. and barthes was a translation! idea-lit worked after all - it unravelled my mind and its ruminations and set free the fishes of ideas to twirl in my head. i realised my obsession with form-lit was cathexis - that everyday for the last few years i had been inundated, harrassed, bombarded by the accoutrements of academia - the newest articles, the hottest books, the latest op-eds, the official pronouncement of american policy of five minutes ago, the death toll of this bombing, the political ramifications of that tsunami, the eventual analyses to offer, the papers to write, the deadlines to submit, the inevitable criticisms - i love my work but the lethality of their deadening qualities manifested themselves in my subconscious evacuation, from the irrepressible hecklings of politics at day to the wine and waterfall world of literature at night. this is also why i love the night and wish day would never dawn again.
___

england ... throbbing through all her estuaries, crying for joy through the mouths of her gulls, and the north wind, with contrary motion, blew stronger against her rising seas. what did it mean? for what end are her fair complexities, her changes of soil, her sinuous coast? does she belong to those who have moulded her and made her feared by other lands, or to those who have added nothing to her power, but have somehow seen her, seen the whole island at once, lying as a jewel in a silver sea, sailing as a ship of souls, with all the brave world's fleet accompanying her towards eternity?

-- e.m. forster, howard's end

how not to be awed by his magisterial paean to his beloved isles!