Joy is never expected.
She walks into a bureaucrat’s office without notice, demanding that all is expedited, flinging forms about like confetti in the whirlwind of her desires, while the bureaucrat falls all over himself, unable to muster his usual indignation, attempting to reconcile her wishes, suddenly finding the mundane tasks that plagued his life sweeter, full of more meaning than he had ever imagined, curling his lips with a smile.
But as she signs the last of her forms and he notorizes them for her, the bureaucrat realizes that Joy will not stay. Soon it will be just himself and these papers and stamps, these provisions and protocols. He sifts through them looking for loopholes to call her back, or just looking so that he might shorten the time until she returns.
posted by ferret at 10:35 pm
On my way back from an open mic tonight, I got into a conversation with the cabbie about American literature. It started after he mistook my backpack for a violin case and asked me if I played the violin. I told him that I wasn’t playing any instrument because I’m really just a poet, and I’m only responsible for words. (This is a bit of a lie overall given my interest in folk guitar, but in this case 100% true. I ended up only reciting poetry over a jam session tonight.) After I told him about my literary ambitions, he started telling me about the four famous American authors that Chinese people read in school: O. Henry, MarkTwain, Theodore Dreiser, and Jack London. (I should note that it took me forever to figure out who the hell å¾·æ¥å¡ž (déláisà i, Dreiser) was. I attribute this to the fact that I was never a big fan of his works.)
I pointed out to him that all of these authors were at least 100 years old, and he said he knew. I asked him if he knew any contemporary authors, but he said he didn’t.
After he dropped me off, I walked home thinking: Maybe this is why Chinese people have such a hard time relating to Americans. They think we’re all Sister Carries and Huck Finns, Connectecut Yankees and hapless gift givers a-la-magi, but most of all – wolves.
posted by ferret at 2:44 am
No sleep. No sleep. Not yet my boy, not yet.
Not as the idle knife grinders sharpen their teeth with anticipation.
Not as the weavers slacken their looms for cat’s-cradle games.
Not as the machinists play percussive troupe with hammers and widgets.
Not as the money-grinders malinger in bed, refusing to reckon sums.
No sleep. No sleep. Not until they sing.
Not until you give them a song.
posted by ferret at 11:29 pm
Perhaps the best way to begin a cultural exchange is by asking the question: What don’t you like about my culture?
Friendships that arise out of this kind of exchange, if they arise at all, are the most meaningful because they expose the true natures of the participants, testing the limits of their tolerance, or more generally, more boldly, the limits of their cultures.
posted by ferret at 9:14 pm
I think that people shouldn’t say that the Chinese will speak English in the future. It’s better to say that China will be one speaking English in the future. Everyone in China learns a specific, job-related amount of English which they perfect through practice. As a result, a foreigner can go through China without ever using Chinese, greeted by flawless English in every situation.
China will speak English. As for the Chinese, it’s touch and go.
posted by ferret at 7:12 pm
Generalizations are inevitably offensive. The Truth is THE generalization, and hence, the most offensive thing of all.
posted by ferret at 1:05 pm
I keep having the thought that the written word is becoming more and more sacred.
In a world flooded with images, where the sight of a pretty face or an epic scene is only a blink away, in a world inundated with sounds, where every single mundane activity is beset with a soundtrack, as if our lives were now at the center of some cosmological film-set, doesn’t the idea of seeing without seeing and hearing without hearing become more profound, more like an arcane magic guided by some mystical principle lost upon the world?
posted by ferret at 8:09 pm
Light still glimmers in the darkness
Even if it’s the flashing of your own eyes.
posted by ferret at 12:31 am
Many times I think there are two people inside of me: the poet and the philosopher. The poet says, “There is no supposed to; there’s only what you do.” The philosopher says, “What you do should be what you are supposed to do.”
Sometimes they walk together easily. Sometimes they wrestle violently upon the ground clawing for the submission of the other. Sometimes one walks proudly in the sun while the other lurks in the shadows, plotting his revenge.
posted by ferret at 12:59 pm
There are many choices in life, many numbered and plentiful!
They sit underneath your tounge longing to be called. They stick to the back of your eyelids waiting to be lit.
Pick one. Throw away the others. They’ll be swallowed, turned to dark places where no one can see.
posted by ferret at 1:00 am