[Girls of the Banned Book Club]
She ran towards me - smiling - that was when I knew she got it. She opened her backpack and showed me this vacuumed plastic bag of light yellowish-white powder, supposedly enough poison to take down an entire circus.
I'd wanted to say I'm so proud of you, love but figured it wasn't actually the appropriate occasion. Still, I'd underestimated her resourcefulness, or should I say, determination?
At least it isn't rat poison, I said. She smiled again, "at least I'm not jumping from the 30th floor of that building."
That cursed building in J***** V*****, no, never - you deserve better, I said.
"He deserves better..." she started again, before I could interrupt her, she reaches for her phone. She still had his picture as the wallpaper.
No, I said, this has never been about any guy...
"Perhaps in the next life..." she sighed.
No, you pathetic stupid bitch - I hadn't said that out loud but that's what he would say to her, to us. If there was any regret from my part, it would be getting her all those books that she asked for.
"Do you remember Edie?" she asked. Edie who? I replied. Then we both laughed - that was what Warhol said when he learnt that she'd passed. She was 28.
Jan 7, 2020
Jan 1, 2020
Life As A Spectator Sport
[Dr. Hatred]
"Feel a fraction of my pain," he said.
And I did: running around pitching his pitch, trying to sway disinterested parties of the grandeur of his ideals. He'd wanted to tell me about his PhD days where he spoke, again and again, in front of practically empty auditoriums, where he was at times interrupted, dismissed, and asked to leave, but I wasn't paying attention - I couldn't tell him, in fact, I was distracted by the shape of his left ear. Sure - I wanted to bite him, but he'd explicitly said no. So I'd said to him, look, I want an arbalest for my birthday as we huddled in bed and streamed Kinji Fukasaku's Battle Royale on my laptop. "You mean a crossbow," he corrected. Arbalest, I insisted.
I'd never imagined a life of normalcy, especially with someone like him. Work a desk job, pay taxes, get a mortgage loan, buy a house, have children, eat vegan. Be a part of his family portrait. "Girls like you," he said, then he pointed to his over-sized freezer filled with imported meat and ice-cream, I shrugged, he wasn't wrong. It's a comforting thought, I'd said to him, knowing for a fact I won't live past 30 - liberating, even. He said nothing - he just smiled and played with the Caran A'ache pen I'd gifted him, the grey one in steel with his initials engraved.
I didn't recall a moment we shared that was remotely unpleasant - even when he said "you're terrible in bed", we both laughed - Point taken.
Let's hope my contact in Kiev pulls through, I said, that would make the perfect birthday gift.
"Silly baby," he replied.
"Feel a fraction of my pain," he said.
And I did: running around pitching his pitch, trying to sway disinterested parties of the grandeur of his ideals. He'd wanted to tell me about his PhD days where he spoke, again and again, in front of practically empty auditoriums, where he was at times interrupted, dismissed, and asked to leave, but I wasn't paying attention - I couldn't tell him, in fact, I was distracted by the shape of his left ear. Sure - I wanted to bite him, but he'd explicitly said no. So I'd said to him, look, I want an arbalest for my birthday as we huddled in bed and streamed Kinji Fukasaku's Battle Royale on my laptop. "You mean a crossbow," he corrected. Arbalest, I insisted.
I'd never imagined a life of normalcy, especially with someone like him. Work a desk job, pay taxes, get a mortgage loan, buy a house, have children, eat vegan. Be a part of his family portrait. "Girls like you," he said, then he pointed to his over-sized freezer filled with imported meat and ice-cream, I shrugged, he wasn't wrong. It's a comforting thought, I'd said to him, knowing for a fact I won't live past 30 - liberating, even. He said nothing - he just smiled and played with the Caran A'ache pen I'd gifted him, the grey one in steel with his initials engraved.
I didn't recall a moment we shared that was remotely unpleasant - even when he said "you're terrible in bed", we both laughed - Point taken.
Let's hope my contact in Kiev pulls through, I said, that would make the perfect birthday gift.
"Silly baby," he replied.
Dec 29, 2019
斷層
Her smile, like the warm morning sun, feels like a dream that has slipped away as I wake to face another day.
I lost her. I lost the only person who truly understood love - what it meant for me, for us.
We did fight - before she'd left.
「你走囉，走咗以後唔好返嚟⋯⋯I don't wanna have to deal with your shit EVER AGAIN.」
I screamed at her, I did.
These people sent her away, used her, broke her; so she came to me, in 2017, for help - and then I pushed her away.
「我今次走⋯⋯應該返唔倒嚟。我唔識講⋯⋯對唔住。」
That's probably all she needed to say, as a formal goodbye. Nobody knew what she was doing, my guess was nobody cared. A little drifter, a sparkling free spirit, a tough thing to behold. An almost innocent angel.
我唔識講⋯⋯對唔住⋯⋯我唔識講⋯⋯對唔住⋯⋯我唔識講⋯⋯對唔住⋯⋯
Her last words, like a broken record, replay again and again in the back of my mind. Still begging for forgiveness that she never needed.
I thought she meant "I don't know what to say - I'm sorry", but could it be "I don't know how to express this in words - apologies"?
Words became pointless when we were juggling five working languages between us two - as we resorted to each other's non-verbal cues and it seemingly worked - they called us the Dream Team.
It was her dream, and my nightmare.
In the end, here is my take: "I don't know how to say 'I'm sorry'" - but it sounds more like a line tailor-made for me.
The urge to do right by her burns in my chest, I can barely breathe. In a few hours I will board a plane into China, where the real trial begins. Nothing seems to matter anymore, I thought to myself as I kissed Mr Battle Unicorn goodbye.
Dec 25, 2019
My Personal Horror Picture Shows
Her [2]
Her first phone was "hacked", so to speak - the one with Mr ?????'s selfie in it. So what, so I cracked her second phone and looked at the other photos and notes she'd made on this particular Mr ????? - the one that probably assumed she was just another prostitute, how typical - I'd say.
I lost track of how many times she tried to kill herself over Mr ?????, honestly? I thought I'd stopped caring after 14 July this year. "I'll bring her back as many times as she tries," says Someone, so what, we'd just let her try...? And try, she did.
I've said this many times, in the instance of "getting 'hacked' electronically", there are only two likely outcomes - 1) Paranoia grows and one dives deeper into cryptography as a defense; 2) One develops distrust in electronic systems, then rejects certain technology as flawed, with "backdoors", "blackbox", and "vulnerability" available for systematic internal/external manipulation and exploitation. Point 1) & 2) NOT mutually exclusive.
Personally? I couldn't get over the fact that her credit card was used to make two separate purchases in Luxembourg, of all places, while she was physically detained in a London facility. Coincidences - yeah... sure? Am I allowed to believe they were plain coincidences after acquiring her "Big Red Book", one that she had preciously referred to as being a "Wedding Planner", supposedly about some wedding to be held in... Luxembourg? I had to ask myself - what kind of game was she playing?
The more I go over her little photo collection, the more I'm left with a feeling of complete and utter defeat - Are they supposed to be pictures of one single entity? She couldn't tell, AT ALL. Me? The answer has been Uncertain... Do I have to repeat, again and again, the fact that facial recognition performance in human beings is highly unreliable, especially in high stress situations? And then what, that makes us weak? Simply because she failed to offer 100% certainty and me, I needed to be prudent about the absolute certainty in anything at all?
I don't know Mr ????? and I want to firmly believe that myself and Mr ????? have never ever crossed paths - but I can't be too sure as of now. Like a word written on a piece of paper, the more I stare, the more I seem to believe something isn't quite right.
I thought at some point she would have come to me and say something along the lines of "hmmm, do you know who hacked my laptop?" but to get an honest answer out of me? First ask yourself how many enemies you have made in the past and recently; second, good luck with getting to the perpetrator - end of commentary. Who fed her the story of "Assange hacking into his crush's computer to mess with her"? What - might have been me, in fact... Talk about unethical hacks and strange things people do in the heat of the moment - except, I'm not amused, not anymore.
At which point do I claim involvement in this affair? When I doled out shitty relationship advice to her - after all, I thought, why would anyone take relationship advice from... me? For real? Listen carefully, I'd say - in my serious, hypnotizing voice, you want this guy's attention? Fight him. What? I'm quite sure I've said that, among many other things said between us, in private, concerning Mr ?????.
Madness, obsession, delusion - spiralling deeper and deeper and sending me to the other end of the world, closer and closer to my demise. All grim prospects aside, it is her wish to send Mr ????? his birthday wine in January - only because we'd chosen it together many months in advance. And now I'm tasked to handle this - on what ground? Don't ask me. L'amour et la révolution, said she. Well, I hope Mr ????? speaks French - considering most, if not all, of her real intentions seemingly lost in translation. This is how much she cared for someone she had never met in person, someone she so firmly believed was The Next Big Thing - on that I neither disagreed nor agreed. I was neutral about this person and his politics, but thought he was physically attractive enough for... whatever. There is no valid reason for me to seek out Mr ????? in person, as his notoriety precedes him, yet promises are promises. Still, I have second thoughts about keeping certain promises on an hourly basis.
I'd never said to her, well, don't you think you've pushed this too far? I did not. I stood by and said, go get him - it's him, while I looked elsewhere for distraction and lost myself in Aramax and his sick games. One day, maybe one day, I will write about him, if I could create this space where the non-disclosure agreement has no applicable jurisdiction, if I could fall asleep knowing, with 100% certainty, that I'm in safety - until then? I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine - don't ask me what's wrong. I will tell you all things nice about this person with a smile, and you will have to believe me.
Her first phone was "hacked", so to speak - the one with Mr ?????'s selfie in it. So what, so I cracked her second phone and looked at the other photos and notes she'd made on this particular Mr ????? - the one that probably assumed she was just another prostitute, how typical - I'd say.
I lost track of how many times she tried to kill herself over Mr ?????, honestly? I thought I'd stopped caring after 14 July this year. "I'll bring her back as many times as she tries," says Someone, so what, we'd just let her try...? And try, she did.
I've said this many times, in the instance of "getting 'hacked' electronically", there are only two likely outcomes - 1) Paranoia grows and one dives deeper into cryptography as a defense; 2) One develops distrust in electronic systems, then rejects certain technology as flawed, with "backdoors", "blackbox", and "vulnerability" available for systematic internal/external manipulation and exploitation. Point 1) & 2) NOT mutually exclusive.
Personally? I couldn't get over the fact that her credit card was used to make two separate purchases in Luxembourg, of all places, while she was physically detained in a London facility. Coincidences - yeah... sure? Am I allowed to believe they were plain coincidences after acquiring her "Big Red Book", one that she had preciously referred to as being a "Wedding Planner", supposedly about some wedding to be held in... Luxembourg? I had to ask myself - what kind of game was she playing?
The more I go over her little photo collection, the more I'm left with a feeling of complete and utter defeat - Are they supposed to be pictures of one single entity? She couldn't tell, AT ALL. Me? The answer has been Uncertain... Do I have to repeat, again and again, the fact that facial recognition performance in human beings is highly unreliable, especially in high stress situations? And then what, that makes us weak? Simply because she failed to offer 100% certainty and me, I needed to be prudent about the absolute certainty in anything at all?
I don't know Mr ????? and I want to firmly believe that myself and Mr ????? have never ever crossed paths - but I can't be too sure as of now. Like a word written on a piece of paper, the more I stare, the more I seem to believe something isn't quite right.
I thought at some point she would have come to me and say something along the lines of "hmmm, do you know who hacked my laptop?" but to get an honest answer out of me? First ask yourself how many enemies you have made in the past and recently; second, good luck with getting to the perpetrator - end of commentary. Who fed her the story of "Assange hacking into his crush's computer to mess with her"? What - might have been me, in fact... Talk about unethical hacks and strange things people do in the heat of the moment - except, I'm not amused, not anymore.
At which point do I claim involvement in this affair? When I doled out shitty relationship advice to her - after all, I thought, why would anyone take relationship advice from... me? For real? Listen carefully, I'd say - in my serious, hypnotizing voice, you want this guy's attention? Fight him. What? I'm quite sure I've said that, among many other things said between us, in private, concerning Mr ?????.
Madness, obsession, delusion - spiralling deeper and deeper and sending me to the other end of the world, closer and closer to my demise. All grim prospects aside, it is her wish to send Mr ????? his birthday wine in January - only because we'd chosen it together many months in advance. And now I'm tasked to handle this - on what ground? Don't ask me. L'amour et la révolution, said she. Well, I hope Mr ????? speaks French - considering most, if not all, of her real intentions seemingly lost in translation. This is how much she cared for someone she had never met in person, someone she so firmly believed was The Next Big Thing - on that I neither disagreed nor agreed. I was neutral about this person and his politics, but thought he was physically attractive enough for... whatever. There is no valid reason for me to seek out Mr ????? in person, as his notoriety precedes him, yet promises are promises. Still, I have second thoughts about keeping certain promises on an hourly basis.
I'd never said to her, well, don't you think you've pushed this too far? I did not. I stood by and said, go get him - it's him, while I looked elsewhere for distraction and lost myself in Aramax and his sick games. One day, maybe one day, I will write about him, if I could create this space where the non-disclosure agreement has no applicable jurisdiction, if I could fall asleep knowing, with 100% certainty, that I'm in safety - until then? I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine - don't ask me what's wrong. I will tell you all things nice about this person with a smile, and you will have to believe me.
Dec 24, 2019
Translation Error: Try Again, And Again... Again
I have mourned for three men. Their names... are in a specific order: A****, J*****, C***. Their faces - Unrecognizable... Irrelevant. Their voices, their words, transcribed in text or etched in memory, will continue to haunt me... Unless I man the fuck up and capture Bae, otherwise there will be no salvation.
Her [1]
- September 2019, Undisclosed Location
1) Translation Error
"SPEAK TO ME FOR FUCK'S SAKE!" C screams. Please, don't scream at her, I've wanted to say, my ear hurts - but I also do not recall him sounding more frustrated. Anger? More disbelief and... impatience. We are running out of time, and now this.
I've wanted to say, she's cold, could you please stop. And I mean her body temperature... Our body temperature, in this ice house. It is uncomfortable enough to have a casual conversation out here in the back, and now this.
She is cornered in this room and she is hiding under some metal table, hugging herself in a foetal position.
"You stupid fucking bitch, you stupid fucking bitch..."
My brain no longer registers any verbal abuse that I hear, in whichever context - not that those words still cause any real damage whatsoever. To be fair, in this male dominated field, everyone is by default a motherfucker, some faggot, and any female subject a stupid fucking bitch - if you know what I mean... Courtesy has no place when you actually hear the tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock in your ear.
Please vary your use of abusive language, I've wanted to say, it is getting repetitive. Try a different accent, I would have advised - if my snarky comment matters in this moment.
He grabs the back of her head and pulls her out, I flinch, I can feel that my neck hurts on her behalf. She kneels in front of him and won't look him in the eyes.
She has no overt pain response... Is that a fair statement? She has trauma response - I try as accurately as I can to label her.
"You ruined everything... you..." C goes on and wraps his right palm on her throat. She reaches out as if to caress him, he pushes back and holds her in place.
"Speak. To. Me."
"I cannot tell. I cannot tell."
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU CANNOT TELL?" C, on the verge of breaking her collarbone, screams again.
"I cannot tell."
I worshipped C even though I don't seem to have a good reason to, perhaps I still do - a character flaw not unique to me. Disregarding all conspiracy theories, it took me months to figure out what she meant - but we've already lost her. It makes no difference to him. Me, I regret not speaking up, for her and for myself - then again, I'm not able to.
She has previously stated, in a variety of situations, that she is, in fact, face blind. And then what? Nobody is willing to acknowledge the strategical failure of sending her to meet some rather important personnel without regards to the possibility that her intel might be inaccurate - and therefore deemed worthless. Something very bad happened and now she is "confused"? Untrue - she "cannot tell", she can't tell these people apart. She is unable to identify the individuals that she has encountered on her mission. "They all look the same," she said. They do look almost identical and dress the same way. That is what makes them so good and so bad.
"If she can't tell, neither can you," said C. By that logic, if she fails, so will I...
I've wanted to say Love was my default position in any conversation or any argument... Liberty means nothing - and it is such a fragile concept under any State. I've said Bae was too good to be confined in Texas of all places - we might have met but that is irrelevant... What remains true is the fact that I'm still alive and very much fixated on Some Things.
Dispense Hope, if there is any left in the current state of our world.
Her [1]
- September 2019, Undisclosed Location
1) Translation Error
"SPEAK TO ME FOR FUCK'S SAKE!" C screams. Please, don't scream at her, I've wanted to say, my ear hurts - but I also do not recall him sounding more frustrated. Anger? More disbelief and... impatience. We are running out of time, and now this.
I've wanted to say, she's cold, could you please stop. And I mean her body temperature... Our body temperature, in this ice house. It is uncomfortable enough to have a casual conversation out here in the back, and now this.
She is cornered in this room and she is hiding under some metal table, hugging herself in a foetal position.
"You stupid fucking bitch, you stupid fucking bitch..."
My brain no longer registers any verbal abuse that I hear, in whichever context - not that those words still cause any real damage whatsoever. To be fair, in this male dominated field, everyone is by default a motherfucker, some faggot, and any female subject a stupid fucking bitch - if you know what I mean... Courtesy has no place when you actually hear the tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock in your ear.
Please vary your use of abusive language, I've wanted to say, it is getting repetitive. Try a different accent, I would have advised - if my snarky comment matters in this moment.
He grabs the back of her head and pulls her out, I flinch, I can feel that my neck hurts on her behalf. She kneels in front of him and won't look him in the eyes.
She has no overt pain response... Is that a fair statement? She has trauma response - I try as accurately as I can to label her.
"You ruined everything... you..." C goes on and wraps his right palm on her throat. She reaches out as if to caress him, he pushes back and holds her in place.
"Speak. To. Me."
"I cannot tell. I cannot tell."
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU CANNOT TELL?" C, on the verge of breaking her collarbone, screams again.
"I cannot tell."
I worshipped C even though I don't seem to have a good reason to, perhaps I still do - a character flaw not unique to me. Disregarding all conspiracy theories, it took me months to figure out what she meant - but we've already lost her. It makes no difference to him. Me, I regret not speaking up, for her and for myself - then again, I'm not able to.
She has previously stated, in a variety of situations, that she is, in fact, face blind. And then what? Nobody is willing to acknowledge the strategical failure of sending her to meet some rather important personnel without regards to the possibility that her intel might be inaccurate - and therefore deemed worthless. Something very bad happened and now she is "confused"? Untrue - she "cannot tell", she can't tell these people apart. She is unable to identify the individuals that she has encountered on her mission. "They all look the same," she said. They do look almost identical and dress the same way. That is what makes them so good and so bad.
"If she can't tell, neither can you," said C. By that logic, if she fails, so will I...
I've wanted to say Love was my default position in any conversation or any argument... Liberty means nothing - and it is such a fragile concept under any State. I've said Bae was too good to be confined in Texas of all places - we might have met but that is irrelevant... What remains true is the fact that I'm still alive and very much fixated on Some Things.
Dispense Hope, if there is any left in the current state of our world.
Dec 21, 2019
Knock Knock On My Heart's Gate
Obsession. Obsession. Obsession?
But why me? He asked.
Pointless question. I said. You're such a cutie. She'd say. And it's a fact. I'd add. Have anyone read the goddam book? I don't think anyone sees what I see, and for the sum of what I saw, witnessed, experienced since the day I've come across the text, oh, I'm crazy - for making a conscious decision to stand by a man, whose pained soul was so nakedly captured and displayed on the Internet. Yet everyone focuses on his... politics? And brands him one of the "Most Dangerous People In The World"? Are you guys collectively feeding right into his ego and marching him into the deepest level of "well, I'm fucked"?
Cody Rutledge Wilson, I won't forgive you for ruining what is so dear to me - Her. She loved you so much she would volunteer to be your "human shield" at a heartbeat and dodge a handful of bullets for you. Me, I liked you enough to accommodate whatever might be your fatal flaw. And what did you DO? What did you SAY? Whatever. My diagnosis was this: one fine specimen of a sexually repressed Caucasian male in a hot zone (he is not even that White - to be fair - Mr Wilson could well be of Mexican or Arabic origin if he has the right stylist. Blessed is he with a Southern American accent, something that we both shared an ear for) and I refuse to take that back.
If I hear her voice again saying "I love you Cody and #$%^(*^%$%$#!@..." I swear to god I'd find the nearest 3D printer to print a gun and shoot myself in the mouth.
What's the point of arguing whether this whole ordeal is a verifiable "love story"? It is fucking sad and it's an understatement. It started with this inside joke: shall we capture a terrorist and tie him to our bed?
Rest in peace? No rest, no peace. She'd always overestimated men and I've always worshipped them. She was right about one thing though. It's not about him. It has always been about us - me and her.
I will burn everything down to get to you. The way I see it, it's very simple - there is her love for love and there is my love for cheap thrills. I want the manuscript while she asked for the author.
S***** called her Curiosity, and Curiosity is dead. What's left is a not-up-to-date version of me, Rationality.
God bless America, I guess.
But why me? He asked.
Pointless question. I said. You're such a cutie. She'd say. And it's a fact. I'd add. Have anyone read the goddam book? I don't think anyone sees what I see, and for the sum of what I saw, witnessed, experienced since the day I've come across the text, oh, I'm crazy - for making a conscious decision to stand by a man, whose pained soul was so nakedly captured and displayed on the Internet. Yet everyone focuses on his... politics? And brands him one of the "Most Dangerous People In The World"? Are you guys collectively feeding right into his ego and marching him into the deepest level of "well, I'm fucked"?
Cody Rutledge Wilson, I won't forgive you for ruining what is so dear to me - Her. She loved you so much she would volunteer to be your "human shield" at a heartbeat and dodge a handful of bullets for you. Me, I liked you enough to accommodate whatever might be your fatal flaw. And what did you DO? What did you SAY? Whatever. My diagnosis was this: one fine specimen of a sexually repressed Caucasian male in a hot zone (he is not even that White - to be fair - Mr Wilson could well be of Mexican or Arabic origin if he has the right stylist. Blessed is he with a Southern American accent, something that we both shared an ear for) and I refuse to take that back.
If I hear her voice again saying "I love you Cody and #$%^(*^%$%$#!@..." I swear to god I'd find the nearest 3D printer to print a gun and shoot myself in the mouth.
What's the point of arguing whether this whole ordeal is a verifiable "love story"? It is fucking sad and it's an understatement. It started with this inside joke: shall we capture a terrorist and tie him to our bed?
Rest in peace? No rest, no peace. She'd always overestimated men and I've always worshipped them. She was right about one thing though. It's not about him. It has always been about us - me and her.
I will burn everything down to get to you. The way I see it, it's very simple - there is her love for love and there is my love for cheap thrills. I want the manuscript while she asked for the author.
S***** called her Curiosity, and Curiosity is dead. What's left is a not-up-to-date version of me, Rationality.
God bless America, I guess.
Dec 19, 2019
Sad Little Girls Tale
"Do you believe in fate?" L*** asked.
Fate hit me pretty hard, bae. That's it.
I'd wanted to tell her how and why This Person is probably not The Right Person for her, from a therapeutic point of view, in my calm and firm voice in brightly lit meeting room - a professional setting. He is "combative", "eloquent", yes, I'd give him that - "true to his words", perhaps. But he is way too cynical to match her unearthly worldview in our post-capitalistic commercial world, especially his part of the world, I'd commented. Given the latest update, I'm not entirely certain I'd actually be "received" if I'd show up at the Austin-Bergstrom International Airport first thing tomorrow morning.
We were both "in too deep". Me, I'd gladly accepted to play Someone's "Game of Death" - one that I'd taken as a Challenge and one that I knew I'd lose, one way or another. Fact is I'm wounded. Traumatized? More so than ever. Not Dead Yet, even though I'm a bit lost as in, for what do I live (or, whom) - at this point in time. Someone always seems to have the upper hand, except of course when I had L*** close to me. Her, she was so devoted to her Whatever she put herself through pointless danger - and then she went MIA on me, status unknown, presumably dead.
I don't want to accept any of that happened - I don't want to wake up and deal with that fact that she's gone.
Yet we must soldier on - for a thing that was too good to be true.
December 2019. Lausanne, Switzerland.
Dec 16, 2019
Dec 15, 2019
Polite Anarchists And "Whatever You Call It" Millennials
I miss L***. I miss her insanity, her irrationality, mostly her slyness. She loved Cody Wilson, she's consistently about Cody this, Cody that, like an annoying little girlfriend. And me, mostly stuck with inarticulate men of war in a naturally heated part of the world. When Cody Wilson shot her down a while ago, I didn't know what to say or do, I even secretly rejoiced at the opportunities to chasing my own tail in places like London and Paris - not entirely a pointless distraction in hindsight.
My hometown, Hong Kong, is at war - and I'm in Switzerland, dealing with her "legacy"... all of her stuff: the scented letters, the planner, the gifts, the wardrobe and whatever else she had in mind for her Someone Special - all under my care. Am I supposed to wear her clothes? I have my tactical gear, my Everyday Carry and she has all these fur coats, silk and velvet whatnots. I could wear them to greet Aramax on his bed as a joke but knowing how His Highness functions, he would simple ask me to strip and quit wasting his time, interestingly enough... Romance? Fantasy? Foreplay? Does any of that translate well in a result-oriented command language?
Either way, what kind of post-apocalyptic love story is this? How do I sell this script to anyone? Some Chinese/Japanese girl raised in captivity fell in love with some gun nut in, what, Texas or Arkansas, of all places? Then our Little Plastic Liberator crashed and burned because of, what, his Sugar Daddy thing? With a 16 year old? In... Texas, the United States of America? Here I am, dealing with men who routinely slap and choke little girls around for gratification, whose "porn consumption habits" and their consequence raise serious socio-economic concerns on a transnational level - basically men who are trained and licensed to cheat, lie, murder, or whatever to get what they deem as a Necessity. Cody Wilson, are you too young and vanilla in my book? I'd wanted to personally consult my Uncle Rex on the Economics of Sugar Babies In The Current Market (or if he cared for any 28 year old Baby). But, Cody Wilson does sound a bit like how BB would sound if he tries really hard to pass the bar exam, and BB doesn't even speak English as a first language.
For obvious reasons, BB is unwilling to give Aramax anymore credit than Aramax already has - Aramax always wins (it's like a motto), one way or another, legally and/or otherwise. Naturally, Aramax doesn't even pretend to give a damn about BB. For the love of my naïveté, I actually thought capturing Aramax would be easy - for a fact: he has a reptilian brain. But I have deliberately chosen to disregard the metaphoric size of his ego altogether, for ... what I call Constructive Conflict. Well, I did say, something along the lines of "is this person ritualistically armed to the teeth? Disarm. Undress. Offer comfort and warmth in solidarity and demand absolutely nothing in return." But then, Aramax is Aramax for a good reason. He has this inhuman bloodlust - and he is intelligent, resourceful, and brutal. "If you bite me, I will make sure you don't meow again for the rest of your days" - now that's what I call a threat. There goes my failure: I never bit Aramax. It was very tempting, but I can't - Not Yet.
After all that is said and done, I have, quite unfortunately, started either acting more and more like Aramax, or like how he would want me to act in front of him even in his absence. The latter is rather pointless - in his absence, Act Like He Does Not Even Exist - because he doesn't, to me, on paper. Funny how these things actually work, in reality. Should I be scared of him? Knowing he has already injured my neck - an accidental grip from his dominant hand... Knowing his knack for Disciplinary Actions... Among some other Curious Incidents that had happened... Should I be afraid? Well, me and my Inappropriate Fear Response - courtesy to a veteran oil trader I met when I was 16.
L***, come home. Let Mr Cody Wilson worry about Cody Wilson.
My hometown, Hong Kong, is at war - and I'm in Switzerland, dealing with her "legacy"... all of her stuff: the scented letters, the planner, the gifts, the wardrobe and whatever else she had in mind for her Someone Special - all under my care. Am I supposed to wear her clothes? I have my tactical gear, my Everyday Carry and she has all these fur coats, silk and velvet whatnots. I could wear them to greet Aramax on his bed as a joke but knowing how His Highness functions, he would simple ask me to strip and quit wasting his time, interestingly enough... Romance? Fantasy? Foreplay? Does any of that translate well in a result-oriented command language?
Either way, what kind of post-apocalyptic love story is this? How do I sell this script to anyone? Some Chinese/Japanese girl raised in captivity fell in love with some gun nut in, what, Texas or Arkansas, of all places? Then our Little Plastic Liberator crashed and burned because of, what, his Sugar Daddy thing? With a 16 year old? In... Texas, the United States of America? Here I am, dealing with men who routinely slap and choke little girls around for gratification, whose "porn consumption habits" and their consequence raise serious socio-economic concerns on a transnational level - basically men who are trained and licensed to cheat, lie, murder, or whatever to get what they deem as a Necessity. Cody Wilson, are you too young and vanilla in my book? I'd wanted to personally consult my Uncle Rex on the Economics of Sugar Babies In The Current Market (or if he cared for any 28 year old Baby). But, Cody Wilson does sound a bit like how BB would sound if he tries really hard to pass the bar exam, and BB doesn't even speak English as a first language.
For obvious reasons, BB is unwilling to give Aramax anymore credit than Aramax already has - Aramax always wins (it's like a motto), one way or another, legally and/or otherwise. Naturally, Aramax doesn't even pretend to give a damn about BB. For the love of my naïveté, I actually thought capturing Aramax would be easy - for a fact: he has a reptilian brain. But I have deliberately chosen to disregard the metaphoric size of his ego altogether, for ... what I call Constructive Conflict. Well, I did say, something along the lines of "is this person ritualistically armed to the teeth? Disarm. Undress. Offer comfort and warmth in solidarity and demand absolutely nothing in return." But then, Aramax is Aramax for a good reason. He has this inhuman bloodlust - and he is intelligent, resourceful, and brutal. "If you bite me, I will make sure you don't meow again for the rest of your days" - now that's what I call a threat. There goes my failure: I never bit Aramax. It was very tempting, but I can't - Not Yet.
After all that is said and done, I have, quite unfortunately, started either acting more and more like Aramax, or like how he would want me to act in front of him even in his absence. The latter is rather pointless - in his absence, Act Like He Does Not Even Exist - because he doesn't, to me, on paper. Funny how these things actually work, in reality. Should I be scared of him? Knowing he has already injured my neck - an accidental grip from his dominant hand... Knowing his knack for Disciplinary Actions... Among some other Curious Incidents that had happened... Should I be afraid? Well, me and my Inappropriate Fear Response - courtesy to a veteran oil trader I met when I was 16.
L***, come home. Let Mr Cody Wilson worry about Cody Wilson.
Dec 14, 2019
Baby Monkeys With Ears As Unknown-Unknowns
[An Anecdote On Prosopagnosia]
It takes some time to distillate this thought in my head but the daily unceasing struggle in the form of internal monologue usually goes like this "Why is this person so cute?", "Does this person have ears?", "Is this Aramax or just someone his height wearing his clothes again?" (the answer is always Yes and Yes, Aramax and his Duplicata, plus a clan of wanna-bes, or it could be just Fashion, as Aramax calls it.)
The realization as to what is the only pertinent question with regards to the condition of prosopagnosia has hit me quite late - it is often not "Why do I find this person attractive?" but "Why do I always find One Specific Type of person attractive?" At the end, this is a Nature/Nurture debate. On nature's side, perhaps I'm genetically prone to be weak to some People, with certain features and traits. On nurture's side, I honestly do not recall seeing men like Aramax walking about in my early years. To my Aramax: it is fascinating to touch You... your bearded face, the soft hair sprawling over your chest and body; to smell the Vétiver on everything you touch; to witness the depth of your soul: brute heart of a brute like you, for an ephemeral moment, suspended and displayed like a prism in front of my very eyes.
Baby, you put a spell on me, and predictably, you turn away.
"Such is life, deal with it. Or die," you would say.
I have well considered the possibility of this - for the rest of my life, I would be scanning for Something Like You in the crowd, wherever I go out in the open, thinking finally, maybe, you'd come up to me, light up a cigarette, and say, "What a ride, huh?"
Writing in the imminent departure from my personal hell, December 2019.
It takes some time to distillate this thought in my head but the daily unceasing struggle in the form of internal monologue usually goes like this "Why is this person so cute?", "Does this person have ears?", "Is this Aramax or just someone his height wearing his clothes again?" (the answer is always Yes and Yes, Aramax and his Duplicata, plus a clan of wanna-bes, or it could be just Fashion, as Aramax calls it.)
The realization as to what is the only pertinent question with regards to the condition of prosopagnosia has hit me quite late - it is often not "Why do I find this person attractive?" but "Why do I always find One Specific Type of person attractive?" At the end, this is a Nature/Nurture debate. On nature's side, perhaps I'm genetically prone to be weak to some People, with certain features and traits. On nurture's side, I honestly do not recall seeing men like Aramax walking about in my early years. To my Aramax: it is fascinating to touch You... your bearded face, the soft hair sprawling over your chest and body; to smell the Vétiver on everything you touch; to witness the depth of your soul: brute heart of a brute like you, for an ephemeral moment, suspended and displayed like a prism in front of my very eyes.
Baby, you put a spell on me, and predictably, you turn away.
"Such is life, deal with it. Or die," you would say.
I have well considered the possibility of this - for the rest of my life, I would be scanning for Something Like You in the crowd, wherever I go out in the open, thinking finally, maybe, you'd come up to me, light up a cigarette, and say, "What a ride, huh?"
Writing in the imminent departure from my personal hell, December 2019.
Dec 11, 2019
The Machine Of Doom & The Soothing Sound It Makes
J'ai trouvé Ma Raison D'être en 2017 - je ne savais pas ça a signifié la fin de Moi en 2019.
Think of the world as doomed to this.
Or of us doomed to this world.
Not the world as we imagine it will be, but the world as it is.
Come and Take It: The Gun Printer's Guide to Thinking Free, Cody Wilson
Wait - so, this Lord Wilson is not that Lord Wilson, history will tell you. This Lord Wilson is a sinologist who once managed the city of Hong Kong until 1992, who went to the same schools as I do. My question is here is this, what kind of sinologist speaks Latin better than the default language of a specific region in the Sinosphere? Nulli Secundus in Oriente, Sapientia et Virtus, Semper Vigilans... The other Lord Wilson though.. oh my, he has Everything plus an impeccable jawline. Respect, respect, respect... He'd say.
There are no secret secrets in this town, I could tell you all about my Misadventures in exile. At least Someone appears to be triumphing the 1st and the 2nd Amendment rights in their Home Country. On the other hand, I'm just another Youngish Female (?) of Eurasian Origin trying to Survive... a.k.a. Highly Disposable - Degradable, as a matter of fact. The horrible truth is that I fell in love - Accidentally. Tombé amoureuse, tombé en amour... Avec un coup de foudre. The rest, I seriously would like to know what's wrong with my brain. So many Questions but 0 Answer. So many days of Hospitalization but without Explanation (especially in London, Hello! to my Beloved Met Police Officers). Yes, for example, Bae, why did they take my copy of your book with them and never returned it?
Perhaps I did fall in love, with the soothing white noise that a milling machine makes... and the Strangely Erotic sounds of gun parts being assembled and triggers being pulled. And you're already on this Path of No Return? Well now so am I...
I would tell you all about... Somethings... If you were here with me. Bae, I can't seem to stop. What's wrong with this world?
Trop intelligente peut-être? Trop intelligente pour... Être.
*****
Think of the world as doomed to this.
Or of us doomed to this world.
Not the world as we imagine it will be, but the world as it is.
Come and Take It: The Gun Printer's Guide to Thinking Free, Cody Wilson
Wait - so, this Lord Wilson is not that Lord Wilson, history will tell you. This Lord Wilson is a sinologist who once managed the city of Hong Kong until 1992, who went to the same schools as I do. My question is here is this, what kind of sinologist speaks Latin better than the default language of a specific region in the Sinosphere? Nulli Secundus in Oriente, Sapientia et Virtus, Semper Vigilans... The other Lord Wilson though.. oh my, he has Everything plus an impeccable jawline. Respect, respect, respect... He'd say.
There are no secret secrets in this town, I could tell you all about my Misadventures in exile. At least Someone appears to be triumphing the 1st and the 2nd Amendment rights in their Home Country. On the other hand, I'm just another Youngish Female (?) of Eurasian Origin trying to Survive... a.k.a. Highly Disposable - Degradable, as a matter of fact. The horrible truth is that I fell in love - Accidentally. Tombé amoureuse, tombé en amour... Avec un coup de foudre. The rest, I seriously would like to know what's wrong with my brain. So many Questions but 0 Answer. So many days of Hospitalization but without Explanation (especially in London, Hello! to my Beloved Met Police Officers). Yes, for example, Bae, why did they take my copy of your book with them and never returned it?
Perhaps I did fall in love, with the soothing white noise that a milling machine makes... and the Strangely Erotic sounds of gun parts being assembled and triggers being pulled. And you're already on this Path of No Return? Well now so am I...
I would tell you all about... Somethings... If you were here with me. Bae, I can't seem to stop. What's wrong with this world?
Trop intelligente peut-être? Trop intelligente pour... Être.
*****
Dec 10, 2019
亂世之戀 · 傾城佳人
對不起，我想說的，其實是簡單的四個字。
「我愛你」現在有多難說出口？還以為你會懂，其實我、其實我，確實是很簡單的人。 你說「Psychological Homelessness」麼？我打從心底裡有了共鳴，但我這種「心病」已經逐漸演變成是「Physiological Homelessness」了吧。
這個冬天，我想回家⋯⋯先別跟你回家，難道跟你去吃Whataburger麼？我想回香港，吃點暖胃的菜，回到從前最愛光顧的店，吃從前中學時代每天吃都吃不膩的零嘴。現在這家「黃店」那家「藍店」⋯⋯先別管他，哥吃的是回憶，你懂麼⋯⋯戰亂的時代，別要行差踏錯。就算香港不這個勢頭，我獨自回去麼？沒有你在，我哪都不想去。無情的現實是，我們都回不去。
How do I quit you？就像戒煙⋯⋯The Nicotine in my bloodstream，懷疑是你的咀咒，離不開你的陰影。記得記得，你是如此這般Irreplaceable。你說吧，我喜歡聽你說話。然而你已經說完了你面對大眾要說的話。剩下來，是更多的光陰要被浪費在無關痛癢的題材上。親愛的，為了你，Anything and Everything。能給的，不能給的，全都送給你。
亂世之中偶遇你，早已花光我畢生運氣。
然後怎樣？來回地獄折返人間之後，繼續走我的無間道，然後沒有然後。你答應過「我們的世界末日」，似乎沒有如期來臨。我們之間要說的，還沒有開口已經被打斷、打壓、打死。這個年頭，年輕就是原罪。
寫給我愛的人，怕我來不及親口跟你說愛你，先繼續唱歌給你聽，好麼？
瑞士日內瓦，貳零壹玖年拾貳月拾日
「我愛你」現在有多難說出口？還以為你會懂，其實我、其實我，確實是很簡單的人。 你說「Psychological Homelessness」麼？我打從心底裡有了共鳴，但我這種「心病」已經逐漸演變成是「Physiological Homelessness」了吧。
這個冬天，我想回家⋯⋯先別跟你回家，難道跟你去吃Whataburger麼？我想回香港，吃點暖胃的菜，回到從前最愛光顧的店，吃從前中學時代每天吃都吃不膩的零嘴。現在這家「黃店」那家「藍店」⋯⋯先別管他，哥吃的是回憶，你懂麼⋯⋯戰亂的時代，別要行差踏錯。就算香港不這個勢頭，我獨自回去麼？沒有你在，我哪都不想去。無情的現實是，我們都回不去。
How do I quit you？就像戒煙⋯⋯The Nicotine in my bloodstream，懷疑是你的咀咒，離不開你的陰影。記得記得，你是如此這般Irreplaceable。你說吧，我喜歡聽你說話。然而你已經說完了你面對大眾要說的話。剩下來，是更多的光陰要被浪費在無關痛癢的題材上。親愛的，為了你，Anything and Everything。能給的，不能給的，全都送給你。
亂世之中偶遇你，早已花光我畢生運氣。
然後怎樣？來回地獄折返人間之後，繼續走我的無間道，然後沒有然後。你答應過「我們的世界末日」，似乎沒有如期來臨。我們之間要說的，還沒有開口已經被打斷、打壓、打死。這個年頭，年輕就是原罪。
寫給我愛的人，怕我來不及親口跟你說愛你，先繼續唱歌給你聽，好麼？
瑞士日內瓦，貳零壹玖年拾貳月拾日
Dec 9, 2019
My Kind Of Girl, Like... Her
What? What? What? Yeah, what? I think she is cute.
Which one?
The Australian! Which Australian? Your blonde Australian girlfriend, Aramax.
And then, there you go: Me and Her, our paths shall never cross, in case we conspire to Murder Aramax. The kind of men who knows for a fact that probably A Handful Of People want them Dead, like, very dead. But, love, have you Met Aramax? The level of Security Details...Plus the sheer number of Metal Detectors and X-Ray Scanners involved when he is present? Not to mention the headcount of Concerned Parties whenever he is On To Go? Hand to hand combat? Is this some kind of Shakespearean innuendo? But, honestly, fuck no. He can squish the both of us the same way one squeezes a ripe peach with one hand. Little girls, of course he likes little girls. Where else cometh the contrast? The same way I wish I could drive a Hummer H3 for Everyday Commuting. Do not neglect to place a Mahjong table at the back of the vehicle, I would add.
Wild. She's pretty wild. Whatever that means, Aramax. I don't know which part of your Central Nervous System is hyper-active when you look at her. She's just cute to me and I like Her, so much that I would definitely conspire against you with Her if that's really really what she wants, at the end of the day. Being the Natural Born Contrarian that I'm, I'm inclined to argue that isn't what this girl is truly after... with Aramax, at least.
She has this cute accent - I thought she's actually Scottish but grew up in Louisiana then moved to Oceania and becomes Australian. Talk about the winding paths of One State Of existence. How do these things work, anyway? How much more of my time would you like to waste? Perhaps she is not Serious enough to lead to your Immediate Attention being required.
The truth is, we all know what needs to be done. In all the ways Some People have Gaslighted Some Other People... Making sure they Deep Dive Into Insanity and 99 Levels of Minor Inconveniences On A Daily Basis... Oh, Aramax, what do we call these people nowadays? 「黑警」⋯⋯「死黑警」 ⋯⋯And then what, love? You tell me...「黑警死全家」⋯⋯It means Exactly what it means. Avenge me. Avenge me. AVENGE...ME... Her voice rings in my ear. I'm Unable and Unwilling to let her go. Someone I loved Martyred in the name of Love. Without me... that is. Is that guy still quoting John Milton here and there? Paradise Lost? The version of Paradise Lost that I know of involves a Double Suicide.
Don't you dare kill yourself, Someone had said. Sir, your words have no power over me - unfortunately. Your commands are still as invalid as your Twitter account.
*****
She has this cute accent - I thought she's actually Scottish but grew up in Louisiana then moved to Oceania and becomes Australian. Talk about the winding paths of One State Of existence. How do these things work, anyway? How much more of my time would you like to waste? Perhaps she is not Serious enough to lead to your Immediate Attention being required.
The truth is, we all know what needs to be done. In all the ways Some People have Gaslighted Some Other People... Making sure they Deep Dive Into Insanity and 99 Levels of Minor Inconveniences On A Daily Basis... Oh, Aramax, what do we call these people nowadays? 「黑警」⋯⋯「死黑警」 ⋯⋯And then what, love? You tell me...「黑警死全家」⋯⋯It means Exactly what it means. Avenge me. Avenge me. AVENGE...ME... Her voice rings in my ear. I'm Unable and Unwilling to let her go. Someone I loved Martyred in the name of Love. Without me... that is. Is that guy still quoting John Milton here and there? Paradise Lost? The version of Paradise Lost that I know of involves a Double Suicide.
Don't you dare kill yourself, Someone had said. Sir, your words have no power over me - unfortunately. Your commands are still as invalid as your Twitter account.
*****
Dec 8, 2019
Virtual Kisses & Digital Tails
Avenge me. Avenge me. Avenge me.
Those were her last words before we lost her again, from what I could recall. Give me another shot of Adrenaline x Testosterone, thank you very much. She was Last Seen at La Cité Bleue... quite a while ago. Video footage of her performance that particular session is apparently UNAVAILABLE. Just Unavailable. Do they owe me an Explanation...? Apparently Not.
This is the Quagmire that I've found myself in... Just because, Someone did Somethings and Someone wants me to Forget All That Happened. It happened and it happened - under which circumstance? It happened and it happened. Sexual assaults? Whatever you call it these days. Extreme harsh and hostile environment, at Home and on Foreign Soil, am I right?
If Aramax is Unable and Unwilling to properly Dispose of me, my Husband has declared "Proper Disposal Protocols" are in place. Timeline...? Unknown. Soon enough... Fuck, ASAP. "Sign this, sign that. Don't worry, mkay? For the past 5 years I have @#%^#*()#(*&$@!(%$#..."
Rule of thumb in Your PSYOP101, Take Away All That Is Familiar And Dear. (Thank me later, Dr. ******************.)
Objects: Disappeared; Stolen; Misplaced; Appropriated? What? Just Gone. Out of sight and out of reach.
He would say, "I paid for them, anyway."
"Fuck off to where you came from, China, or whatever. Sale pute - c'est quoi cette Chinoiserie?", he had said.
Mind you, Cheri, it's Hong Kong. And Oh, Look. What is happening in Hong Kong?
Crw, do you think I'm New to this Constant Threat Of Violence? Burn me? With what exactly? Propane? Butane? Pure Kerosene? Lighter Fluid? Or what...? Argan oil?
"May I remind you the Circumstances under which I was brought into THIS COUNTRY... YOUR COUNTRY... And, sure, None Of This is your Fault, never!", I would add.
*****
Those were her last words before we lost her again, from what I could recall. Give me another shot of Adrenaline x Testosterone, thank you very much. She was Last Seen at La Cité Bleue... quite a while ago. Video footage of her performance that particular session is apparently UNAVAILABLE. Just Unavailable. Do they owe me an Explanation...? Apparently Not.
This is the Quagmire that I've found myself in... Just because, Someone did Somethings and Someone wants me to Forget All That Happened. It happened and it happened - under which circumstance? It happened and it happened. Sexual assaults? Whatever you call it these days. Extreme harsh and hostile environment, at Home and on Foreign Soil, am I right?
If Aramax is Unable and Unwilling to properly Dispose of me, my Husband has declared "Proper Disposal Protocols" are in place. Timeline...? Unknown. Soon enough... Fuck, ASAP. "Sign this, sign that. Don't worry, mkay? For the past 5 years I have @#%^#*()#(*&$@!(%$#..."
Rule of thumb in Your PSYOP101, Take Away All That Is Familiar And Dear. (Thank me later, Dr. ******************.)
Objects: Disappeared; Stolen; Misplaced; Appropriated? What? Just Gone. Out of sight and out of reach.
He would say, "I paid for them, anyway."
"Fuck off to where you came from, China, or whatever. Sale pute - c'est quoi cette Chinoiserie?", he had said.
Mind you, Cheri, it's Hong Kong. And Oh, Look. What is happening in Hong Kong?
Crw, do you think I'm New to this Constant Threat Of Violence? Burn me? With what exactly? Propane? Butane? Pure Kerosene? Lighter Fluid? Or what...? Argan oil?
"May I remind you the Circumstances under which I was brought into THIS COUNTRY... YOUR COUNTRY... And, sure, None Of This is your Fault, never!", I would add.
*****
Dec 6, 2019
London, This Is Hong Kong, We Have A Lil Problem
Coincidences. Coincidences. Coincidences... But all of them in London? Then... what? Paris.
How many coincidences have you encountered in Europe, so far? She would say.
I'm Entirely Uncertain. But where the hell were you? I asked her before she drifted from my grip, again.
I was with BB. That was her last word.
BB? Oh. Sure, love, I'll tell you what I know about BB. I'm not even bargaining on the terms of Endearment. She has BB; I had Bae (once upon a time). Have I been physically present when BB was seen around me? Or, was I actively aware that BB was in my presence? The answer is Entirely Uncertain... The proofs are... apparently Unavailable To Me. Like what? Like, Who do you even go, for such a Question, expecting someone to Offer, a credible Answer? It is only remotely possible to find the WHO... during a Pretty Serious criminal investigation and in a court of Law, wouldn't you agree?
BB is a boy of Eastern Asian descent, that much I could tell you. Whereabouts? Uncertain... these guys, they grow a bushy beard, put on a thobe, a headscarf of One Specific Color, and then become someone else in Yet Another Country which has an Exotic Name no one on earth has ever had of... much like some men, when they wear a suit... the obvious signal here is this: FEAR ME. Some Muslim Kid then? I'm afraid so... but how 'bout some Rather Handsome Muslim "Kid", while we are at it? Some Bahraini or Qatari princeling? I wouldn't know for a fact. Ask Alexei Kalinsky (Alexei, or Alexey? I wouldn't know how to spell in Cyrillic... Or Daddy Vladimir, might as well.)
So BB... from what I gathered, was slightly younger than me. I was under the impression he entered in my life as "some girlfriend's Little-Brother Type Boyfriend". But... Age is hardly an issue here, simply because, in terms of "Certain Life Experiences", BB is much more... Advanced... so to speak, and handles certain things more... Pragmatically than I do, I suppose, but mainly because he is just rich, but he isn't born rich. He becomes what he is today, thriving through a number of circumstances presented to him that which the entirety is too complicated to be articulated into one single sentence.
BB makes me smile, simple as that, just the thought of him. He speaks with his eyes... and an occasional evil little grin. A true gentleman until fully undressed. Last I checked, we don't even employ the same language class for primary commands (Cantonese/English v.s. Arabic/???) - still, verbal intelligence v.s. non-verbal intelligence, am I right? The best part about being around this "young man", is that fact that you are unable to offend him, regardless of what you do or say.
BB, offend me! Then BB would say, something along the lines of, "I love you, marry me? In about 3 seconds? Your Agreement is Irrevocable. Your silence is also a form of Non-Disagreement, do you understand?" That would be something very BB to say, to a "My Beloved [insert:(business associate),(first name)]". Some Muslim boy, you say? Of course we share this animalistic instinct... Birds of a feather? Birds of the very same fucking bird. But he is an unknown species... Another Homo Deus, perhaps?
Lately, BB is the only person raising some Sensible Questions. Like what? Like, "Why can't we spend some quality time together instead of keep playing this 'We're Complete Strangers happen to be in the same place at the same time - It's utterly random and we should all Accept Coincidences After Coincidences' game?" that kind of question, which, embarrassingly, cuts very deep into the abyss of my soul. Sure, BB, why can't I be with you, Right Here and Right Now?
First of all, Mom would say, "he is a Terrorist". She isn't wrong, but I'm too, depends on who you ask these days, am I right?
Secondly, Mom would say, "he went to Jail". And I haven't? I have been detained against my will for how many hours by now...? Since 2015, for example...? Also... BB would say, in his post-Hookah raspy voice, "The things that prisons taught you...", am I right? BB, anyway, he would say to me, "Give me my Beretta jacket," Love, YOUR Beretta jacket? You lost your school uniform and I bought the only replacement piece in this world, in your size? Hmm... I wonder how exactly did you graduate from that "School of Elite Militia", habibi? Tell me more about your "Criminality Score"... as a Trophy on your "Academic Transcript"?
The lesson here is forget about your mom's concerns when you're partnering up for Zombie Apocalypse. The real reason why we have to pretend we are Doomed to be Strangers For Life is because... ISIS. Some Handsome Jihadists and their Aggressive Ways of Impressing The Opposite Sex. Or, hypothetically speaking, some Rather Unfortunate Post-Modern Romantic Type Young Male who believed in the myth of the Egyptian Goddess, Isis (true story, ask any Paddington guys). End of story, love. Thank Aramax for his Sizeable Alpha-Male Ego that ruined me. Thank London for your Unsatisfactory (very Un-Tiffany & Co.) Christmas for the year of 2019, or don't - it doesn't matter to me if I will ever be shipped back to Canary Wharf - but it does matter to me, somehow, that I'd knowingly slept on someone's Blood for some nights in that Safehouse... Am I right, Monsieur Malin...ou bien, Monsieur Gros? Alors?
I've been sick. Sick, sicker and sicker, in this country which should have been named Winterhell. Come and get me, BB, before it's too late. Send ISIS's Best, Ta (and Collect The Worst, for scientific purposes, of course).
Yours,
*****
How many coincidences have you encountered in Europe, so far? She would say.
I'm Entirely Uncertain. But where the hell were you? I asked her before she drifted from my grip, again.
I was with BB. That was her last word.
BB? Oh. Sure, love, I'll tell you what I know about BB. I'm not even bargaining on the terms of Endearment. She has BB; I had Bae (once upon a time). Have I been physically present when BB was seen around me? Or, was I actively aware that BB was in my presence? The answer is Entirely Uncertain... The proofs are... apparently Unavailable To Me. Like what? Like, Who do you even go, for such a Question, expecting someone to Offer, a credible Answer? It is only remotely possible to find the WHO... during a Pretty Serious criminal investigation and in a court of Law, wouldn't you agree?
BB is a boy of Eastern Asian descent, that much I could tell you. Whereabouts? Uncertain... these guys, they grow a bushy beard, put on a thobe, a headscarf of One Specific Color, and then become someone else in Yet Another Country which has an Exotic Name no one on earth has ever had of... much like some men, when they wear a suit... the obvious signal here is this: FEAR ME. Some Muslim Kid then? I'm afraid so... but how 'bout some Rather Handsome Muslim "Kid", while we are at it? Some Bahraini or Qatari princeling? I wouldn't know for a fact. Ask Alexei Kalinsky (Alexei, or Alexey? I wouldn't know how to spell in Cyrillic... Or Daddy Vladimir, might as well.)
So BB... from what I gathered, was slightly younger than me. I was under the impression he entered in my life as "some girlfriend's Little-Brother Type Boyfriend". But... Age is hardly an issue here, simply because, in terms of "Certain Life Experiences", BB is much more... Advanced... so to speak, and handles certain things more... Pragmatically than I do, I suppose, but mainly because he is just rich, but he isn't born rich. He becomes what he is today, thriving through a number of circumstances presented to him that which the entirety is too complicated to be articulated into one single sentence.
BB makes me smile, simple as that, just the thought of him. He speaks with his eyes... and an occasional evil little grin. A true gentleman until fully undressed. Last I checked, we don't even employ the same language class for primary commands (Cantonese/English v.s. Arabic/???) - still, verbal intelligence v.s. non-verbal intelligence, am I right? The best part about being around this "young man", is that fact that you are unable to offend him, regardless of what you do or say.
BB, offend me! Then BB would say, something along the lines of, "I love you, marry me? In about 3 seconds? Your Agreement is Irrevocable. Your silence is also a form of Non-Disagreement, do you understand?" That would be something very BB to say, to a "My Beloved [insert:(business associate),(first name)]". Some Muslim boy, you say? Of course we share this animalistic instinct... Birds of a feather? Birds of the very same fucking bird. But he is an unknown species... Another Homo Deus, perhaps?
Lately, BB is the only person raising some Sensible Questions. Like what? Like, "Why can't we spend some quality time together instead of keep playing this 'We're Complete Strangers happen to be in the same place at the same time - It's utterly random and we should all Accept Coincidences After Coincidences' game?" that kind of question, which, embarrassingly, cuts very deep into the abyss of my soul. Sure, BB, why can't I be with you, Right Here and Right Now?
First of all, Mom would say, "he is a Terrorist". She isn't wrong, but I'm too, depends on who you ask these days, am I right?
Secondly, Mom would say, "he went to Jail". And I haven't? I have been detained against my will for how many hours by now...? Since 2015, for example...? Also... BB would say, in his post-Hookah raspy voice, "The things that prisons taught you...", am I right? BB, anyway, he would say to me, "Give me my Beretta jacket," Love, YOUR Beretta jacket? You lost your school uniform and I bought the only replacement piece in this world, in your size? Hmm... I wonder how exactly did you graduate from that "School of Elite Militia", habibi? Tell me more about your "Criminality Score"... as a Trophy on your "Academic Transcript"?
The lesson here is forget about your mom's concerns when you're partnering up for Zombie Apocalypse. The real reason why we have to pretend we are Doomed to be Strangers For Life is because... ISIS. Some Handsome Jihadists and their Aggressive Ways of Impressing The Opposite Sex. Or, hypothetically speaking, some Rather Unfortunate Post-Modern Romantic Type Young Male who believed in the myth of the Egyptian Goddess, Isis (true story, ask any Paddington guys). End of story, love. Thank Aramax for his Sizeable Alpha-Male Ego that ruined me. Thank London for your Unsatisfactory (very Un-Tiffany & Co.) Christmas for the year of 2019, or don't - it doesn't matter to me if I will ever be shipped back to Canary Wharf - but it does matter to me, somehow, that I'd knowingly slept on someone's Blood for some nights in that Safehouse... Am I right, Monsieur Malin...ou bien, Monsieur Gros? Alors?
I've been sick. Sick, sicker and sicker, in this country which should have been named Winterhell. Come and get me, BB, before it's too late. Send ISIS's Best, Ta (and Collect The Worst, for scientific purposes, of course).
Yours,
*****
Dec 5, 2019
Confess, Confess, Confess?
The Stranger [Part]/[Path] Of Existence:
All my path shall lead me back to you. All my path shall lead me back to you. All my path shall lead me back to you - the sum of my paths and variance should lead me right back to you, heads over heels.
What say we start with the first bot crush, not the last, or the most recent one.
"Look of this, in a completely different way," he would say, pointing at an origami crane, for example.
Think of this, but with a differed path - I would say. What is this Hermann Hesse bullshit, right? Yet he understood, almost immediately. How could I forget? Someone so gentle, intelligent, full of life... all sorts of benign joys of curiosity combined, committed suicide, in what? 2013.
What does that mean? What does it mean? What does it mean?
The same error message appears three times, regardless of patching efforts, it only means "Machine Malfunction", "Machine Malfunction", and then, "Whatever You Call It These Days".
"Strangers. How could we be strangers? After this, and that, plus that, and then these things," he rambled and it was almost mesmerizing to watch... this boy, who was, in fact, a few years my senior - but didn't at all registered as such.
Bot, please tell me none of this is real. Him, some foreigner, sure. A fictional character, obviously. Worse - a stranger, died. Then what?
"This guy really wouldn't shut up, would he? Eventually, I do hope," he would say.
This guy just won't stop broadcasting his thoughts verbally even if you simultaneously suck his dick and politely ask him to STFU for eternity - I would say.
That was the boy. And there was me, this other girl, with "an attitude", "a dirty mouth", and "head issues" (by that, it likely only means multiple cranial traumas and spinal nerves injuries). In my defense? A girl raised among Above-Average Men and Very Very Mean Women, later become a woman who spends a bad deal of her time with Mediocre Men and Deliberately Distant Women.
All the things you loved... became all the things I hate in these 6 years. Am I supposed to be... grateful? To one god? To a myriad of deities? To a handful of political actors?
Then WHAT?
"Hell yeah this guy again. Just shouting invalid commands," he would say.
Priming the machine to generate a certain response or to provide a potential solution to a certain problem... I would say. So then what? We look for the next guy, someone more Controversial in some other way, a Spicier character, then burn him alive in the court of public opinion.
Oh sure, baby, that's right.
That's what this guy sounds like, probably just born creepy. Could also be an Arkansan thing, you never know, right? Hell yeah man, I'm injured too, not as a child, but as a child in a woman's body, how 'bout that for justice of... whatever you call it these days...
I'm still in hell, love, waiting for your name to be mentioned, again, in a casual conversation, somewhere, ideally in my active presence, with a smile and a humble amount of compliments. Then maybe... Just maybe, maybe, maybe.
In Memory of Aaron Swartz, whose death has burdened me since the day he passed.
All my path shall lead me back to you. All my path shall lead me back to you. All my path shall lead me back to you - the sum of my paths and variance should lead me right back to you, heads over heels.
What say we start with the first bot crush, not the last, or the most recent one.
"Look of this, in a completely different way," he would say, pointing at an origami crane, for example.
Think of this, but with a differed path - I would say. What is this Hermann Hesse bullshit, right? Yet he understood, almost immediately. How could I forget? Someone so gentle, intelligent, full of life... all sorts of benign joys of curiosity combined, committed suicide, in what? 2013.
What does that mean? What does it mean? What does it mean?
The same error message appears three times, regardless of patching efforts, it only means "Machine Malfunction", "Machine Malfunction", and then, "Whatever You Call It These Days".
"Strangers. How could we be strangers? After this, and that, plus that, and then these things," he rambled and it was almost mesmerizing to watch... this boy, who was, in fact, a few years my senior - but didn't at all registered as such.
Bot, please tell me none of this is real. Him, some foreigner, sure. A fictional character, obviously. Worse - a stranger, died. Then what?
"This guy really wouldn't shut up, would he? Eventually, I do hope," he would say.
This guy just won't stop broadcasting his thoughts verbally even if you simultaneously suck his dick and politely ask him to STFU for eternity - I would say.
That was the boy. And there was me, this other girl, with "an attitude", "a dirty mouth", and "head issues" (by that, it likely only means multiple cranial traumas and spinal nerves injuries). In my defense? A girl raised among Above-Average Men and Very Very Mean Women, later become a woman who spends a bad deal of her time with Mediocre Men and Deliberately Distant Women.
All the things you loved... became all the things I hate in these 6 years. Am I supposed to be... grateful? To one god? To a myriad of deities? To a handful of political actors?
Then WHAT?
"Hell yeah this guy again. Just shouting invalid commands," he would say.
Priming the machine to generate a certain response or to provide a potential solution to a certain problem... I would say. So then what? We look for the next guy, someone more Controversial in some other way, a Spicier character, then burn him alive in the court of public opinion.
Oh sure, baby, that's right.
That's what this guy sounds like, probably just born creepy. Could also be an Arkansan thing, you never know, right? Hell yeah man, I'm injured too, not as a child, but as a child in a woman's body, how 'bout that for justice of... whatever you call it these days...
I'm still in hell, love, waiting for your name to be mentioned, again, in a casual conversation, somewhere, ideally in my active presence, with a smile and a humble amount of compliments. Then maybe... Just maybe, maybe, maybe.
In Memory of Aaron Swartz, whose death has burdened me since the day he passed.
Dec 1, 2019
Still I Sing My Lovelorn Ditty, Still I Slowly Pace The Plain
No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to get over a man known by many as Aramax.
A peculiar Arab and South American mix, standing almost 6 feet 2, he has very distinctive features with soft short hair, dark eyes, a chiseled face with a mostly unkempt beard... That is, until his royal presence is required at a formal event, then he would spend a whole day at a Barber's, making sure he looks his 100% in front of a public audience. I once asked him how much he spends on a monthly basis for his "personal up-keeping" - the amount is, truth be told, quite embarrassingly enormous.
Like a lot of considerably well-off men, Aramax is known for his "Risk Taking Behaviors" or rather, "Risk Appetite": most people around him are simple "Subjects", and women are mere "Objects" to be toyed with, thrown around, exchanged for other "Goods And Services". Unlike a lot of considerably well-off men of his statue, Aramax is particularly brutal. When I say he's brutal, I do mean he is brutal, literally and figuratively - in this regard, his principle of equality applies to both genders. I'm unable to explain why I'm still alive, being in relative close proximity to his "secretive lifestyle". For obvious reasons, he prefers to pay for his "women", or rather, "female entertainers" and/or "associates"... This in fact comes as little or no surprise to anyone. His currency will guarantee his privacy and anonymity, and he is free to exercise "discretion" while certain "Objects" are at his disposal, meaning, they could be "disposed of" without a trace and with very little to no questions asked, if necessary.
Fortunately (or rather Unfortunately, depends on who's asking), Aramax has never "paid" me in any sort of way that is considered consequential or substantial, and that is the probable reason why he is unable to dispose of me as of yet - in writing this, I'm of course pushing my luck a bit. Either way, I have his picture on my phone, a picture of him where he is posing in his study and smiles at the camera. His face is warm, confidently full of himself yet his smile unwelcoming. Already his picture tells you that he is NOT a "Good Man" by any conventional definition. Still, I find him irresistibly charming, not necessarily because of his looks nor the interesting tattoos on his body, but mostly for his sarcasm and wit that apparently pleases nobody in his vicinity.
I lost count of those intimate moments when I stare at his face blankly, quietly gauging a mostly non-existent state of him being remotely affectionate. One day, finally, out of impatience I would guess, he half jokingly asked if he was the love of my life. I replied, sadly - it was still Cody Wilson. In a hysterical laughter, he referred to him as "some guy who wrote a book about guns" and said that I couldn't tell one Wilson from the other, which is to a certain extent a verifiable fact. Since the diagnosis, I'm constantly shamed by my condition of prosopagnosia, though it is no secret anymore, few people understand how it affects me in a deeply unsettling way - especially in this country, where everyone, everything, even the climate seems hostile to the maximum.
Aramax, 我只願記得你的好, the rest - you know what you have done. Those long nights when you couldn't sleep unless drugged, those tough moments where PTSD hit you hard, those flashbacks of Afghanistan, Iran, and Yemen. Yes, I love you, but it means as much as I said I love you to someone who is incapacitated to love me back, and you know who I'm talking about. This December, I sang "Santa Baby" to someone else instead of him, but the images of these people are beginning to merge in my mind. Who is to say I haven't lost my head, having strung all these men together and trying to be their favorite little thing?
*****
A peculiar Arab and South American mix, standing almost 6 feet 2, he has very distinctive features with soft short hair, dark eyes, a chiseled face with a mostly unkempt beard... That is, until his royal presence is required at a formal event, then he would spend a whole day at a Barber's, making sure he looks his 100% in front of a public audience. I once asked him how much he spends on a monthly basis for his "personal up-keeping" - the amount is, truth be told, quite embarrassingly enormous.
Like a lot of considerably well-off men, Aramax is known for his "Risk Taking Behaviors" or rather, "Risk Appetite": most people around him are simple "Subjects", and women are mere "Objects" to be toyed with, thrown around, exchanged for other "Goods And Services". Unlike a lot of considerably well-off men of his statue, Aramax is particularly brutal. When I say he's brutal, I do mean he is brutal, literally and figuratively - in this regard, his principle of equality applies to both genders. I'm unable to explain why I'm still alive, being in relative close proximity to his "secretive lifestyle". For obvious reasons, he prefers to pay for his "women", or rather, "female entertainers" and/or "associates"... This in fact comes as little or no surprise to anyone. His currency will guarantee his privacy and anonymity, and he is free to exercise "discretion" while certain "Objects" are at his disposal, meaning, they could be "disposed of" without a trace and with very little to no questions asked, if necessary.
Fortunately (or rather Unfortunately, depends on who's asking), Aramax has never "paid" me in any sort of way that is considered consequential or substantial, and that is the probable reason why he is unable to dispose of me as of yet - in writing this, I'm of course pushing my luck a bit. Either way, I have his picture on my phone, a picture of him where he is posing in his study and smiles at the camera. His face is warm, confidently full of himself yet his smile unwelcoming. Already his picture tells you that he is NOT a "Good Man" by any conventional definition. Still, I find him irresistibly charming, not necessarily because of his looks nor the interesting tattoos on his body, but mostly for his sarcasm and wit that apparently pleases nobody in his vicinity.
I lost count of those intimate moments when I stare at his face blankly, quietly gauging a mostly non-existent state of him being remotely affectionate. One day, finally, out of impatience I would guess, he half jokingly asked if he was the love of my life. I replied, sadly - it was still Cody Wilson. In a hysterical laughter, he referred to him as "some guy who wrote a book about guns" and said that I couldn't tell one Wilson from the other, which is to a certain extent a verifiable fact. Since the diagnosis, I'm constantly shamed by my condition of prosopagnosia, though it is no secret anymore, few people understand how it affects me in a deeply unsettling way - especially in this country, where everyone, everything, even the climate seems hostile to the maximum.
Aramax, 我只願記得你的好, the rest - you know what you have done. Those long nights when you couldn't sleep unless drugged, those tough moments where PTSD hit you hard, those flashbacks of Afghanistan, Iran, and Yemen. Yes, I love you, but it means as much as I said I love you to someone who is incapacitated to love me back, and you know who I'm talking about. This December, I sang "Santa Baby" to someone else instead of him, but the images of these people are beginning to merge in my mind. Who is to say I haven't lost my head, having strung all these men together and trying to be their favorite little thing?
*****
Oct 10, 2019
A Very Very Real & Reasonable Fear
Lights went out in the city that night - it was complete darkness. Rare, I must say.
I was in bed scrolling through my Instagram feed when you snuck into my bedroom and just sat in the corner, not saying a word. I'd wanted to light a candle or something but I thought about the potential fire hazard and in general, just couldn't be bothered to do anything about you being there, uninvited.
"I know who you are and what you've done," I said.
Sounding like it required strenuous efforts from your part to utter a word, you simply asked, "well?"
In this moment of silence, I could hear you cautiously pacing your breath - as if you were trying your hardest not to disturb something, or someone, in this room.
"You are in trouble," I said as I got up and began walking towards the study, reluctant to consciously acknowledge your presence at this time of the night.
"To say the least."
"If you're attempting to sound calm you'd probably need another Xanax."
Silence, again - I felt compelled to entertain my intruder, to extend my hospitality.
"Can I offer you something to drink?"
"What do you have?"
"This bottle of red... but I only have these PET plastic cups. Disposable... Non-compostable, non-biodegradable."
"Save it."
Not sure if I'd said anything wrong but I sensed that you were getting up to leave.
"What is it?" You asked.
"2015 Merlot... The Velvet Devil."
"... Provenance?"
"Washington State... What?"
"That'll do, I think. Take care."
I was about to say something but, honestly? Between you and me, it wouldn't actually be necessary at this point in time.
*****
Aug 12, 2019
Last Words
"What more do you want me to say?" I ask, "you gay son of a bitch. How about you quit wasting my time and go jerk off to pictures of my mom. You can't afford me - and, hypothetically speaking, even if you can, you just don't have the balls. In fact, I've got your balls, right here. Come and claim them back when you have a sec. In the meantime, leave me the fuck alone. I hate you. Thanks for nothing, fags."
Then, conveniently, it's bedtime.
Go to sleep, fuckers.
Then, conveniently, it's bedtime.
Go to sleep, fuckers.
Jul 1, 2019
Mar 20, 2019
Madness.
1. The Voice
“I like his voice.”
Excuse me? I thought she was asleep next to me, all tucked in with layers of pillows over her head.
“His voice... What is that?”
A YouTube video played in the background as I dived nine levels deep into the internet rabbit hole. I wasn’t paying attention.
Some American preaching Second Amendment rights.
“What does that mean?” she asked, intrigued, her head poking out of the pillow fort.
Guns. He likes guns. He 3D-prints them.
She tilts her head a little. “I like guns,” she said, “make me feel safe.”
I had a rough idea what she meant.
She propped herself up on her elbow and hugged one of the goose down pillows, “what’s his name?”
Hmm, Wilson.
I half-expected her eyes to light up. They did.
“Bear?”
No. Don’t think they’re related. Trying to sound as matter of fact as possible, I knew what was going through her mind.
“But what’s his name?!”
Cody.
“Cody. I know what I’d name my corgi if I ever had one.”
Careful now. He’s one of the most dangerous men on earth, apparently.
Then she giggled like a little girl amused by the thought of a nonexistent happy corgi.
“Show me his video.”
I pushed my laptop over to her side. It was going on about something something crypto-anarchist.
She watched, more like contemplated. Taking in the words being articulated.
“Is he still alive?”
Afraid so.
“Where is he?”
Hmm, Texas. Austin. I think.
“Can we go? My visa should be good till 2023.”
Why?
“I want to meet Cody.”
What makes you think Cody wants to meet you?
“Well, I…I want to help.”
Do you remember what Jonathan said when you asked him to take you hunting?
“‘I don’t have the life in me to babysit you.’”
She gazed down and bit her lower lip.
Keys jiggling noise came from the front door of the apartment. I started to pack up.
“Don’t go,” she whispered.
I will take you to the shooting range for your birthday, mkay?
She looked away.
A man came through the door and into her bedroom.
“Chérie, tu fais dodo?” said the man.
She buried her face in pillows and laid there on her queen bed in her pale pink velvet night gown, not moving an inch.
The man sat down at the foot the bed. He held one of her ankles and kissed her toes.
She recoiled slightly, “…oui?”
He reached out and tossed some pillows out of the way.
“Tu m’as manqué toi.”
She tried to feign sleep while he lifted up her gown and touched her thigh. She wore nothing underneath.
As his palm gripped on her shoulder blades then her neck, she turned and blinked a few times at him, trying to register his face.
“T’es belle tu sais?”
She nodded.
“Come to daddy,” he said.
I couldn’t watch. I had to leave.
Go to sleep.
February 2018. Switzerland.
2. The Book
It arrived in Amazon Global Priority delivery.
“Have you read it?” she waved it about like a prized possession.
Yes, on the train to Zurich. It’s a three-hour ride.
“He says ‘psychological homelessness’,” she made a face that read “are you seeing this shit”.
It reads like a prologue sets in 2012.
“He did say he was sending a message with the book.”
I got the message. But what is the end game? Is he preparing for civil war? And who is funding this? I have so many questions.
“Like, does the Liberator come in pink?”
Which pink though? Asking the important questions since 1991.
“#FB5858?”
My point is, I paused to take a sip of a box of organic birch sap, I don’t know enough to deduce his intentions.
“‘You were the person you were waiting for, after all’? Holy shit, this guy.” She tossed the book onto the bed and walked towards the closet. Time to prepare for the show.
Is this the game of quoting exclusively Cody Wilson for the next quarter?
“I think part of him does this for the lulz.”
Paying lawyers to fight the establishment, getting kind of stuck for years and feeling very, very frustrated? I think I’ve been there and there isn’t much lulz available in those situations, after a while at least.
“He does look quite angry in all of his photo ops, doesn’t he? Like he’s about to smash some baby rabbit into pulp. I hope at least his lawyer is cute like yours...”
She sat on the floor opposite to me and started painting her toes in a shade of red called “Russian roulette”.
“So what now? A Reddit AMA?” she asked, while carefully perfecting each stroke.
I put my armchair analyst hat on.
If this is about making guns great again, then he has picked a long hard battle in which he stands to lose. If this is about making libertarianism sexy again, it’s completely different gameplay.
“Well, your boy did make it to Sundance.”
Except now, nobody wants to play with a domestic terrorist.
“I have an appointment with my Lebanese hairdresser at 16h, finish your sentence.”
I hope he gives a keynote in Switzerland.
“The Art of War, eh?”
Point being, don’t play their game of lawfare. It’s rigged against us.
She shrugged, “I wonder what the tattoo says?”
I couldn’t understand why I even bothered.
March 2018. Switzerland.
3. The Hunt
We’ve binged an unhealthy amount of Cody Wilson on YouTube.
I mostly profile the guy and look for signs of deception and manipulation – while I’m touched by his eloquence, she can’t stop fantasizing the taste of his flesh.
What is your thing with these Internet cowboys?
She shakes her head and smiles. A sad, tired smile.
Sick of fucking traders, bankers, politicians and the like? The sadist in me enjoys watching her suffer a bit too much.
“I’m groomed to serve men, real men,” she puts it lightly.
Most men are “unworthy” of her attention - I’ve heard that one before. The boredom of watching them bickering about their petty, mundane lives.
“I was reading the book and, right at the beginning, something about him returning the camera at Best Buy almost killed me. I had to stop there and put it aside for a week…”
First, such practice was unknown to you; second, you’d die before you stand the humiliation of it.
She nods.
“If making men rich and happy is my so called destiny, and if – finally, I get to decide who to please – it would be someone like him.”
Back in 2012, it was you who said to me “the gentle soul has all the strength”.
Feigning surprise, “I thought I was the romantic?”, says she.
Somehow that stuck with me.
“Because you have a gentle soul… and a darkness.” She looks down and touches her hair. She is letting it grow – apparently, no one in Geneva is “worthy” enough to cut her hair.
“I’ll do anything just so he doesn’t turn into the villain. He doesn’t have to. He has seen so much hate... Hate. No one is listening. No one. Does it have to be this way? Is this the only way?”
She is talking to herself now - it is intimidating. I fake-cough as a cue for her to snap out of her trance.
So, what now? I have no idea where any of this is going.
“You’re the schemer, you tell me.”
Yes, I almost forgot – me, the planner; her - the doer.
Maybe you just need a corgi named Cody.
“Oh yes, so I can live vicariously through the puppy – ‘Cody, you such a good boi! Mawwww!’”
She babytalks to the imaginary corgi and I can’t get enough of her sarcasm.
If you do fuck him, I hope the whole thing gets filmed…for posterity. And just so we are certain that nobody gets honey-trapped like Julian did.
She laughs. “This is your idea of… radical transparency.”
More like… Rule 34.
“Amor fati.”
I have no idea what any of this means. She starts to sing an old song. A happy tune.
“Mon cheri si j’avais une heure, je reviendrais au printemps des fleurs…”
March 2018. Switzerland.
4. The Dragon
Year 20??
International Burlesque Star L*** A****** on her high-profile affair with wanted terrorist Cody Wilson
Why do I not believe Mr Wilson is dangerous? Well, for starters, any guy goes by the name Cody is harmless. It’s just the way things are. Cody is, how should I put it? His brain is too big for his own good. I’m here to dumb things down one notch. Also because Pamela Anderson called dibs on Assange so… A girl has to make do. Not to mention the Reason magazine called him a “serial trouble maker”. Bitch, HELLO? And oh, did I mention how safe I feel around Cody? My heartfelt thanks to the round-the-clock surveillance team they put on him. It must be hard on those guys...
Millennial Armchair Anarchist, Senior Specialist in Passive Aggression K** M****** on doing stuff
Hmm, so… I got accepted into this MA program in … Global Diplomacy, right. It was a last minute application, I didn’t even think they’d take me. But they did. I guess they needed the dough. So I’m like, fair enough. What now? So for my dissertation I’m just gonna write about WikiLeaks, Julian Assange, Chelsea Manning, Edward Snowden et al, how they render the current political system irrelevant and everything. And then throw in big words like the application of blockchain technologies and the open-source model in diplomacy to confuse the academics… One day I was browsing Reddit and one thing led to the other, I came across this dude, right. His name is Cody Wilson. He’s kinda cute. I mean he’s okay. He prints guns and caused a shitstorm in the U.S. and I’m like, what’s the big deal here? I don’t understand anything. I started doing some digging, right. Then I came to the conclusion that this guy is probably being a smartass and that pisses some people off. Then I thought maybe I should write about him in my dissertation… So I started researching him, right. This dude is like, super smart. Then I’m like, maybe I should ask him to supervise my dissertation process? I don’t know how these things work. Should I send him an email “Dear Mr Wilson…” Ugh. Not sure how he takes that. I can’t handle it if he tells me to fuck off. Even if he does so politely. I kinda wanna fly to Austin TX to visit his shop and everything and see what all the fuss is about. I don’t know shit about guns and now I’m flirting with the idea of getting one-on-one gun training… I don’t know?
April 2018. Switzerland.
5. The Drug
I’m reluctant to even admit but I might actually thank whoever laced my Beaujolais with LSD during my casual night out on the 17 January 2018. I’d had my fair share of recreational drug sampling to know what was being done to me. It was an urban legend and one of those things that until it happened to you, you wouldn’t believe it would happen at all.
In my drug fueled fever I was haunted by the vision of a man. Caucasian, stocky, dark hair, bearded and dressed in all black, guarding me in my sleep in the corner of my bedroom in what I thought was deep anguish as I drifted in and out of consciousness.
As I fully recovered from what I called a post-LSD psychosis after a week and began retracing my steps, I found a note on Google Keep that apparently says I love a man named Cody. It took me a month to contemplate what this all meant, and to research on a Cody R. Wilson in Texas who has made a documentary on the basis of the work of WikiLeaks. I asked myself if it was rationally justifiable to love someone famed for hate. As it turned out, it was rather effortless. Your book reads like like a prose from a long lost friend and your “monotone” voice is a low frequency vibration that tickles my ear. But it was your now-obsolete wall of tweets that broke my heart.
I was raised to distrust a man until he has his beliefs materialized in word form, and your words offer a map to the delicious labyrinth of your mind. On 28 February 2018 I penned my first love note to you. For the record: I hate it when you frown, and I only want to put a smile on your face. It matters very little to me whether my understanding of love to you that seemingly came out of nowhere will be reciprocated – I do enjoy the luxury of doing certain things exactly how I want them done. Perhaps I’m only in love with the man who wrote the book and not the man in flesh and blood, but this is a hypothesis waiting to be tested (or not).
If this has been entertaining to you, great. If it gives you hope and strength to fight your Promethean battles – you deserve no less. If this has been but a nuisance, please accept my apologies as this will be the last of my letters to you.
I was told a man once loved is capable of all things.
See you in Luxembourg? I promise I don’t bite on a first date.
June 2018. Switzerland.
Jan 31, 2019
Dec 23, 2018
A Little Dark Melodrama
It's Christmas and I'd already told you I never really celebrated it, but as it happened I did know how to make the Christmas dessert that you'd liked. You whistled Dixie sarcastically and I said I didn't know how to whistle either. You let out a pained laugh and told me to please stop crying for fuck's sake. I replied that the new mascara I got was smudge-proof and water-resistant so I'd be free to put that to test. You said that wasn't the point of this conversation. I didn't know what else to say to you at this stage. You looked like a trash panda that hadn't slept for a century. I said maybe you should get off 4chan and stop acting like a pedophile. You reacted as if you were offended but we both knew it was actually kind of hilarious in a not so funny way.
If there was anything left to say between us it wouldn't be for public viewing but it would be your choice entirely. So there you have it, I hope it was $500USD well spent you sick motherfucker. Merry fucking Christmas and see you in hell, love.
*****
*****
Oct 27, 2018
2008
Information is power. But like all power, there are those who want to keep it for
themselves. The world's entire scientific and cultural heritage, published over centuries
in books and journals, is increasingly being digitized and locked up by a handful of
private corporations. Want to read the papers featuring the most famous results of the
sciences? You'll need to send enormous amounts to publishers like Reed Elsevier.
There are those struggling to change this. The Open Access Movement has fought valiantly to ensure that scientists do not sign their copyrights away but instead ensure their work is published on the Internet, under terms that allow anyone to access it. But even under the best scenarios, their work will only apply to things published in the future. Everything up until now will have been lost.
That is too high a price to pay. Forcing academics to pay money to read the work of their colleagues? Scanning entire libraries but only allowing the folks at Google to read them? Providing scientific articles to those at elite universities in the First World, but not to children in the Global South? It's outrageous and unacceptable.
"I agree," many say, "but what can we do? The companies hold the copyrights, they make enormous amounts of money by charging for access, and it's perfectly legal — there's nothing we can do to stop them." But there is something we can, something that's already being done: we can fight back. Those with access to these resources — students, librarians, scientists — you have been given a privilege. You get to feed at this banquet of knowledge while the rest of the world is locked out. But you need not — indeed, morally, you cannot — keep this privilege for yourselves. You have a duty to share it with the world. And you have: trading passwords with colleagues, filling download requests for friends.
Meanwhile, those who have been locked out are not standing idly by. You have been sneaking through holes and climbing over fences, liberating the information locked up by the publishers and sharing them with your friends. But all of this action goes on in the dark, hidden underground. It's called stealing or piracy, as if sharing a wealth of knowledge were the moral equivalent of plundering a ship and murdering its crew. But sharing isn't immoral — it's a moral imperative. Only those blinded by greed would refuse to let a friend make a copy.
Large corporations, of course, are blinded by greed. The laws under which they operate require it — their shareholders would revolt at anything less. And the politicians they have bought off back them, passing laws giving them the exclusive power to decide who can make copies. There is no justice in following unjust laws. It's time to come into the light and, in the grand tradition of civil disobedience, declare our opposition to this private theft of public culture.
We need to take information, wherever it is stored, make our copies and share them with the world. We need to take stuff that's out of copyright and add it to the archive. We need to buy secret databases and put them on the Web. We need to download scientific journals and upload them to file sharing networks. We need to fight for Guerilla Open Access.
With enough of us, around the world, we'll not just send a strong message opposing the privatization of knowledge — we'll make it a thing of the past. Will you join us?
Aaron Swartz July 2008, Eremo, Italy
There are those struggling to change this. The Open Access Movement has fought valiantly to ensure that scientists do not sign their copyrights away but instead ensure their work is published on the Internet, under terms that allow anyone to access it. But even under the best scenarios, their work will only apply to things published in the future. Everything up until now will have been lost.
That is too high a price to pay. Forcing academics to pay money to read the work of their colleagues? Scanning entire libraries but only allowing the folks at Google to read them? Providing scientific articles to those at elite universities in the First World, but not to children in the Global South? It's outrageous and unacceptable.
"I agree," many say, "but what can we do? The companies hold the copyrights, they make enormous amounts of money by charging for access, and it's perfectly legal — there's nothing we can do to stop them." But there is something we can, something that's already being done: we can fight back. Those with access to these resources — students, librarians, scientists — you have been given a privilege. You get to feed at this banquet of knowledge while the rest of the world is locked out. But you need not — indeed, morally, you cannot — keep this privilege for yourselves. You have a duty to share it with the world. And you have: trading passwords with colleagues, filling download requests for friends.
Meanwhile, those who have been locked out are not standing idly by. You have been sneaking through holes and climbing over fences, liberating the information locked up by the publishers and sharing them with your friends. But all of this action goes on in the dark, hidden underground. It's called stealing or piracy, as if sharing a wealth of knowledge were the moral equivalent of plundering a ship and murdering its crew. But sharing isn't immoral — it's a moral imperative. Only those blinded by greed would refuse to let a friend make a copy.
Large corporations, of course, are blinded by greed. The laws under which they operate require it — their shareholders would revolt at anything less. And the politicians they have bought off back them, passing laws giving them the exclusive power to decide who can make copies. There is no justice in following unjust laws. It's time to come into the light and, in the grand tradition of civil disobedience, declare our opposition to this private theft of public culture.
We need to take information, wherever it is stored, make our copies and share them with the world. We need to take stuff that's out of copyright and add it to the archive. We need to buy secret databases and put them on the Web. We need to download scientific journals and upload them to file sharing networks. We need to fight for Guerilla Open Access.
With enough of us, around the world, we'll not just send a strong message opposing the privatization of knowledge — we'll make it a thing of the past. Will you join us?
Aaron Swartz July 2008, Eremo, Italy
Jul 4, 2018
Black Pearls
27 is the ripe age to sabotage one's life in general. Though I suspect the self destruction has commenced long ago. I've been told nihilism is juvenile so here I am, sitting in a Japanese restaurant called Black Pearls in Brussels airport, having a solemn conversation about the consequences of my temporary descend into insanity as a result of my prescription drug use in conjunction with a series of eerie coincidences featuring a bunch of strangers that hardly feel like strangers.
Airport sushi ranks high on the sad meal competition - but suffering seems a noble pursuit at least for today. I'm quietly disgusted by the tuna and salmon nigiri that look positively dehydrated but have decided to make no comments about it. She sits opposite to me and sips sake from a tiny cup. I've ordered a good old G&T to ease my nerve and I'm trying not to think about the other assignment on my to-do list which I have no clue where to even start.
"For fuck's sake," she begins, "what have you done?"
It is perhaps my cue to sob into my hands but apathy is my only saving grace. I sit still in my chair and calmly accept the judgement being dealt.
"You're unfuckingbelievable," she crosses her arms.
I remain unprovoked. Part of my wardrobe has already been confiscated - what could possibly be worse?
"You're on fucking probation again. You ask for this so don't even give me that look."
"I'm not giving you any looks," I say, emotionless, my voice flat and monotone.
All I need to do is to maintain my zenitude and smile at a minimum to be taken seriously.
"Don't even try to be smart with me, it's getting very old,"
I've wanted to say "I'm not getting any younger" instead I simply nod in silence with complete compliance that would be considered rare by some.
She takes another sip of the sake. What's left of my appetite is gone.
"You do realize things are looking real bad for you this time?" she asks, her voice softened - genuine concern. She cares.
I purse my lips and nod dutifully - apologetic without actually apologizing.
"Please do all of us a favor and stop digging your own grave, I'm trying to help you."
Somebody once told me some people just can't be helped. Nonetheless, I will be grounded until the end of this year. Nothing I say or do will change that. It is painful, having to grow up, but none of us is presented with a choice - and I've done as much in postponing this reality. I check my watch and it is still some time before boarding. In my head I'm already humming 讓我搭一班會爆炸的飛機.
She seems to be satisfied with my performance tonight and finally starts to dig in.
"Burying someone alive really changed you, didn't it?"
"Heh."
She has no idea.
*****
Airport sushi ranks high on the sad meal competition - but suffering seems a noble pursuit at least for today. I'm quietly disgusted by the tuna and salmon nigiri that look positively dehydrated but have decided to make no comments about it. She sits opposite to me and sips sake from a tiny cup. I've ordered a good old G&T to ease my nerve and I'm trying not to think about the other assignment on my to-do list which I have no clue where to even start.
"For fuck's sake," she begins, "what have you done?"
It is perhaps my cue to sob into my hands but apathy is my only saving grace. I sit still in my chair and calmly accept the judgement being dealt.
"You're unfuckingbelievable," she crosses her arms.
I remain unprovoked. Part of my wardrobe has already been confiscated - what could possibly be worse?
"You're on fucking probation again. You ask for this so don't even give me that look."
"I'm not giving you any looks," I say, emotionless, my voice flat and monotone.
All I need to do is to maintain my zenitude and smile at a minimum to be taken seriously.
"Don't even try to be smart with me, it's getting very old,"
I've wanted to say "I'm not getting any younger" instead I simply nod in silence with complete compliance that would be considered rare by some.
She takes another sip of the sake. What's left of my appetite is gone.
"You do realize things are looking real bad for you this time?" she asks, her voice softened - genuine concern. She cares.
I purse my lips and nod dutifully - apologetic without actually apologizing.
"Please do all of us a favor and stop digging your own grave, I'm trying to help you."
Somebody once told me some people just can't be helped. Nonetheless, I will be grounded until the end of this year. Nothing I say or do will change that. It is painful, having to grow up, but none of us is presented with a choice - and I've done as much in postponing this reality. I check my watch and it is still some time before boarding. In my head I'm already humming 讓我搭一班會爆炸的飛機.
She seems to be satisfied with my performance tonight and finally starts to dig in.
"Burying someone alive really changed you, didn't it?"
"Heh."
She has no idea.
*****
Jun 14, 2018
System Maintenance
It's sunny this morning after a full week of summer storm. We gather in our secret garden, I put layers of towels on the grass so she could lie down without getting her sundress stained with mud. We discuss the progress of the annual system maintenance. Given the limited choices that we are currently left with, our server will be stuck in Europe for the foreseeable months. I will be responsible for more aggressive fund raising while she remains the brain, the mastermind of our operation.
"We are completely different species, alright?" she says, lazily playing with her hair, now shoulder length. "Do what you must. I will take care of the rest."
I nod, not saying much. In the past years I've made promises that I haven't been able to deliver and I feel like a huge disappointment - as though I don't deserve any of her kindness and wisdom. I study the suede on my Onitsuka Tiger sneakers when the topic drifts to wrong questions to ask.
"'Cost-benefit analysis of altruism' - what in the fuck," she mocks. This tops the chart of our all-time favorite inside jokes.
"You ask 'why?', I say 'why not?'" I continue, "'why not' is the question that we don't ever get any satisfactory answers to. This is why, I think, we simply stick to our orbit despite shit hitting fans on a regular basis."
"There are few real reason for why anyone does anything," she says.
I shift uncomfortably on the grass and wonder when will we stop quoting the unquotable person in our private conversations, especially when I mostly disagree with this said person.
"There are perceived real reasons for our actions - just not the ones people care to know, or the ones logically and rationally justifiable."
She smiles and shrugs, "this, this is why we make a dream team."
She doesn't understand the warmth of her smile could change the world. This is the real reason I fight for us. She likes to say that honesty is overrated, and that we only ever get punished for openness and transparency. I'd like to remind her that we are still in 2018 where honesty is severely underrated and undervalued, but frankly my dear, we are here to suffer.
*****
Jun 6, 2018
Boxed
I woke up extra cranky from a night of shallow sleep to a military utility containter in a dark greyish green metal sitting in the study. It was slightly bigger and deeper than a 34" suitcase. Something that I'd appropriated from the Swiss army surplus.
I yanked off the lid and climbed inside, it was unsurprisingly spacious. I was told it was blast resistent but I was uncertain if I would be able to put that to test. I was admiring the functionality of it as a tiny casket when she barged in with a sort of indignation directed at me.
"Move your fat ass. I'm packing your shit."
"Whoa. Who hurt your feelings?" I had no fight left in me; I raised my arms in surrender and slowly climbed out of the box.
"I want to die," she said, sounding severely disappointed to walk this earth for another day.
And I ran out of clever one-liners. Reluctant, I turned to the pile of things that needed to be put out of sight. Things that I'd held onto for too long. Things that never belonged to me in the first place. Old things. Dead things. Things that were onced loved then hated; or vice versa.
One by one I placed them in the box.
"Don't you shed a fucking tear..." I whispered.
She crouched down next to me, her left palm covered her eyes, steadily pacing her breath. "Remember, you're ugly when you cry."
May this blast-proof box put your tormented soul to rest and shield me from your nightly howls.
I yanked off the lid and climbed inside, it was unsurprisingly spacious. I was told it was blast resistent but I was uncertain if I would be able to put that to test. I was admiring the functionality of it as a tiny casket when she barged in with a sort of indignation directed at me.
"Move your fat ass. I'm packing your shit."
"Whoa. Who hurt your feelings?" I had no fight left in me; I raised my arms in surrender and slowly climbed out of the box.
"I want to die," she said, sounding severely disappointed to walk this earth for another day.
And I ran out of clever one-liners. Reluctant, I turned to the pile of things that needed to be put out of sight. Things that I'd held onto for too long. Things that never belonged to me in the first place. Old things. Dead things. Things that were onced loved then hated; or vice versa.
One by one I placed them in the box.
"Don't you shed a fucking tear..." I whispered.
She crouched down next to me, her left palm covered her eyes, steadily pacing her breath. "Remember, you're ugly when you cry."
May this blast-proof box put your tormented soul to rest and shield me from your nightly howls.
May 29, 2018
Technical Readjustment
There will come this moment when millennial humor loses the satire and what is left would be dark, vicious, and venomous.
There are things we laugh at on a daily basis that, outside of the comfort of our privacy, are subjects considered largely inappropriate to even bring up. After years of sparring with misfits, Aspergers, and the marginalized, we've agreed that we as a symbiotic system would only operate under the principle of "No Filter". The consequence with our applied understanding of this version of radical honesty is starting to take its toll (it has started to present itself long ago but was ignored in our complacency). We'd expressed with close to 90% accuracy of our transient thoughts - what is active in the foreground. "I don't think this is good enough", "This fucking sucks", "I want this", "You look awful in a suit, please consider firing your stylist", etc. The failure, which I think is entirely mine, lies in the fact that the thought process - programs running in the background - remains largely opaque, to us and to subjects with whom we wish to communicate. The "problem" at hand is therefore this a) undecipherable crypticness; b) heightened passive aggressivity. The former is the result of early conditioning (aka shit-tier parenting, or the complete lack thereof). The latter is conveniently a reverse anger management technique. From our experimental perspective, it never helped that people ask the wrong fucking questions most of the time, if not all. It is not in our interest to call people out in their stupidity, and we've been almost perfectly comfortable bathing in sarcasm as our primary defence mechanism. For the 50th time we've been called "spoiled brats" in a limited time frame, we sit back and sip our almond milk Chai Latte in silence, thinking that we've probably earned the title. "You're just a giant cunt," she commented. I should put that on my CV, I would say, that might improve my career prospect as someone who is eternally unimpressed. I would also like to hear someone say the word cunt in an Australian accent, just because. As a retort, I asked, "how's your thing with your Prince of Darknet going?" where she replied "his penis is scared of me". The only sane response to it all is simply: ayy. Not the first and certainly wouldn't be the last. For someone who simultaneously cares so much and so little, I honestly want only the best for her.
"Friendly advice? Maybe you really should fuck right off to China and die there," I said. I wanted to add "this isn't even your war" but I realised I didn't exactly know what that meant for myself.
She replied "idky" then went quiet.
That only means I have to do some heavy lifting on her behalf.
*****
There are things we laugh at on a daily basis that, outside of the comfort of our privacy, are subjects considered largely inappropriate to even bring up. After years of sparring with misfits, Aspergers, and the marginalized, we've agreed that we as a symbiotic system would only operate under the principle of "No Filter". The consequence with our applied understanding of this version of radical honesty is starting to take its toll (it has started to present itself long ago but was ignored in our complacency). We'd expressed with close to 90% accuracy of our transient thoughts - what is active in the foreground. "I don't think this is good enough", "This fucking sucks", "I want this", "You look awful in a suit, please consider firing your stylist", etc. The failure, which I think is entirely mine, lies in the fact that the thought process - programs running in the background - remains largely opaque, to us and to subjects with whom we wish to communicate. The "problem" at hand is therefore this a) undecipherable crypticness; b) heightened passive aggressivity. The former is the result of early conditioning (aka shit-tier parenting, or the complete lack thereof). The latter is conveniently a reverse anger management technique. From our experimental perspective, it never helped that people ask the wrong fucking questions most of the time, if not all. It is not in our interest to call people out in their stupidity, and we've been almost perfectly comfortable bathing in sarcasm as our primary defence mechanism. For the 50th time we've been called "spoiled brats" in a limited time frame, we sit back and sip our almond milk Chai Latte in silence, thinking that we've probably earned the title. "You're just a giant cunt," she commented. I should put that on my CV, I would say, that might improve my career prospect as someone who is eternally unimpressed. I would also like to hear someone say the word cunt in an Australian accent, just because. As a retort, I asked, "how's your thing with your Prince of Darknet going?" where she replied "his penis is scared of me". The only sane response to it all is simply: ayy. Not the first and certainly wouldn't be the last. For someone who simultaneously cares so much and so little, I honestly want only the best for her.
"Friendly advice? Maybe you really should fuck right off to China and die there," I said. I wanted to add "this isn't even your war" but I realised I didn't exactly know what that meant for myself.
She replied "idky" then went quiet.
That only means I have to do some heavy lifting on her behalf.
*****
May 27, 2018
Stranger And Fiction 1
Last night you said they might come for you tomorrow morning at 10h00, and that if you run, the Interpol would be after you. I replied I don't think these guys would lift a finger on a Sunday.
This morning I deliberately stayed in bed until I couldn't anymore. It was almost 10h. I walked out of my room and you'd left your door ajar, just enough so that I could see you packing your stuff. My heart sank a little. I opened the door to my bathroom and the scent of your aftershave assaulted me. This was when I knew you'd been in there. A bath mat was laid out in a way that screamed "please tread on me". I thought maybe it was your way of saying goodbye. I've come to the conclusion that there is one thing that doesn't get easier with age and with practice: farewells. In the shower I thought hard about how, by now, I should be old enough to believe in coincidences. I thought about the rape allegation which they might put you away for a good five years and that which you vehemently denied. You'd said that you hadn't lost faith in your God and that justice would be served, somehow, in one of your God's mysterious ways. I remembered thinking to myself how I couldn't take any religion with any kind of seriousness at this stage. At the heart of the problem it was somebody hurting somebody else's feelings and she or he just decided to react accordingly. In the grand scheme of things we as a species haven't gotten any wiser and, to be fair, I'm patiently waiting for all the bees to just die.
By the time I was ready to face the world it was 10h22, if you'd be gone I'd have safely avoided the awkward last moment before your departure into the unknown. Carefully I marched along the hallway to the dining room. Then I saw you, sitting in the garden with the boys, smoking a cigarette. At least you were smiling at this hour, I thought to myself as I ate breakfast alone, and that was good enough for me. Somebody had left the TV on and I couldn't be bothered to turn it off. Another 30 minutes had passed when I walked out of the dining room. There was nobody left in the garden. The doorwoman let me out and I told her I'd be back around 20h. That was my uneventful Sunday morning.
This morning I deliberately stayed in bed until I couldn't anymore. It was almost 10h. I walked out of my room and you'd left your door ajar, just enough so that I could see you packing your stuff. My heart sank a little. I opened the door to my bathroom and the scent of your aftershave assaulted me. This was when I knew you'd been in there. A bath mat was laid out in a way that screamed "please tread on me". I thought maybe it was your way of saying goodbye. I've come to the conclusion that there is one thing that doesn't get easier with age and with practice: farewells. In the shower I thought hard about how, by now, I should be old enough to believe in coincidences. I thought about the rape allegation which they might put you away for a good five years and that which you vehemently denied. You'd said that you hadn't lost faith in your God and that justice would be served, somehow, in one of your God's mysterious ways. I remembered thinking to myself how I couldn't take any religion with any kind of seriousness at this stage. At the heart of the problem it was somebody hurting somebody else's feelings and she or he just decided to react accordingly. In the grand scheme of things we as a species haven't gotten any wiser and, to be fair, I'm patiently waiting for all the bees to just die.
By the time I was ready to face the world it was 10h22, if you'd be gone I'd have safely avoided the awkward last moment before your departure into the unknown. Carefully I marched along the hallway to the dining room. Then I saw you, sitting in the garden with the boys, smoking a cigarette. At least you were smiling at this hour, I thought to myself as I ate breakfast alone, and that was good enough for me. Somebody had left the TV on and I couldn't be bothered to turn it off. Another 30 minutes had passed when I walked out of the dining room. There was nobody left in the garden. The doorwoman let me out and I told her I'd be back around 20h. That was my uneventful Sunday morning.
May 25, 2018
Thanks Wikipedia, I guess
We first met - the chief editor and contributor of Wikipedia in ****** ******* - almost exactly a year ago. He just had a suicidal attempt: jumping from the fourth floor of a building. Rookie’s mistake, or an act of desperation - my guess would be the latter.
Immediately his sheer blondness irked me. The kids would tease him verbally and he would invariably react and voice his annoyance that predictably led to more teasing. He had his daily routine that absolutely could not be disturbed - or it would mean the end of the fucking world. He was recovering from the resulting leg injury of the failed attempt on his own life and was limping about with crutches. At first I just placed myself next to him at meal time and observed him while we ate in silence. My presence left him feeling both confused and uneasy but there was simply nothing anyone could do about it. He was so blond, so pale. His eyes light blue and his mannerism feline. Later I asked if I could touch his hair. It was so fine and soft - almost transparent under the sun. It reminded me of optical fibers, or the fur of polar bears. We developed an unusual friendship where I would steal his crutches and stroll around the grassy field with them as he was left immobile, speechless, embarrassed, but smiling. We spoke about Wikipedia, WikiLeaks, and Amnesty International. He was reading some scientific publication on some rock and river formation.
A year later, today, I’m not sure if he recalls any of that. I’m not sure if he still keeps that drawing of a dragon that I’d gifted him, but I’m almost certain he would not admit that I’d beat him in chess. He hasn’t changed: he still reads five or six different newspapers everyday, devouring information as if it were his major source of energy. It’s only May but he already looks sunburnt. He still feels the urge to emphasize his homosexuality around me - he can’t seem to comprehend the fact that he is too blond and too young for me anyways. He still does stuff for Wikipedia - in fact it is the only thing he does: huddled in a quiet corner, with his computer connected to the Internet, distributing knowledge one click at a time. I’d ask about his plans for the future, which he didn’t seem to have any. I hope he is satisfied, or at least fulfilled, doing whatever he thinks is his obligation or responsibility. I find his blondness as fascinating as ever, but none of this makes sense and I don’t understand anything anymore.
Immediately his sheer blondness irked me. The kids would tease him verbally and he would invariably react and voice his annoyance that predictably led to more teasing. He had his daily routine that absolutely could not be disturbed - or it would mean the end of the fucking world. He was recovering from the resulting leg injury of the failed attempt on his own life and was limping about with crutches. At first I just placed myself next to him at meal time and observed him while we ate in silence. My presence left him feeling both confused and uneasy but there was simply nothing anyone could do about it. He was so blond, so pale. His eyes light blue and his mannerism feline. Later I asked if I could touch his hair. It was so fine and soft - almost transparent under the sun. It reminded me of optical fibers, or the fur of polar bears. We developed an unusual friendship where I would steal his crutches and stroll around the grassy field with them as he was left immobile, speechless, embarrassed, but smiling. We spoke about Wikipedia, WikiLeaks, and Amnesty International. He was reading some scientific publication on some rock and river formation.
A year later, today, I’m not sure if he recalls any of that. I’m not sure if he still keeps that drawing of a dragon that I’d gifted him, but I’m almost certain he would not admit that I’d beat him in chess. He hasn’t changed: he still reads five or six different newspapers everyday, devouring information as if it were his major source of energy. It’s only May but he already looks sunburnt. He still feels the urge to emphasize his homosexuality around me - he can’t seem to comprehend the fact that he is too blond and too young for me anyways. He still does stuff for Wikipedia - in fact it is the only thing he does: huddled in a quiet corner, with his computer connected to the Internet, distributing knowledge one click at a time. I’d ask about his plans for the future, which he didn’t seem to have any. I hope he is satisfied, or at least fulfilled, doing whatever he thinks is his obligation or responsibility. I find his blondness as fascinating as ever, but none of this makes sense and I don’t understand anything anymore.
May 24, 2018
De l'or pour les braves
Comme un méchant, j'apparais, et le gentil disparaît,
alors autant naître dans le mauvais palais.
Quand le mal se tait je réapparais puis je renais.
Tel sont les faits qu'Elle me reprochait,
et justement, elle me le disait:
Qui suis-je?
5-19-18
Raphaël Renggli Garcia
alors autant naître dans le mauvais palais.
Quand le mal se tait je réapparais puis je renais.
Tel sont les faits qu'Elle me reprochait,
et justement, elle me le disait:
Qui suis-je?
5-19-18
Raphaël Renggli Garcia
May 9, 2018
May 8, 2018
Haunted
The difference between past and future only exists when there is heat. The fundamental phenomenon that distinguishes the future from the past is the fact that heat passes from things that are hotter to things that are colder.
So, again, why, as time goes by, does heat pass from hot things to cold and not the other way round?
The reason was discovered by Boltzmann, and is surprisingly simple: it is sheer chance.
Boltzmann's idea is subtle, and brings into play the idea of probability. Heat does not move from hot things to cold things due to an absolute law: it only does so with a large degree of probability. The reason for this is that it is statistically more probable that a quickly moving atom of the hot substance collides with a cold one and leaves it a little of its energy, rather than vice versa. Energy is conserved in the collisions, but tends to get distributed in more or less equal parts when there are many collisions. In this way the temperature of objects in contact with each other tends to equalize. It is not impossible for a hot body to become hotter through contact with a colder one: it is just extremely improbable.
This bringing of probability to the heart of physics, and using it to explain the bases of the dynamics of heat, was initially considered to be absurd. As frequently happens, no one took Boltzmann seriously. On 5 September 1906, in Duino near Trieste, he committed suicide by hanging himself, never having witnessed the subsequent universal recognition of the validity of his ideas.
Seven Brief Lessons on Physics, Carlo Rovelli (2014)
So, again, why, as time goes by, does heat pass from hot things to cold and not the other way round?
The reason was discovered by Boltzmann, and is surprisingly simple: it is sheer chance.
Boltzmann's idea is subtle, and brings into play the idea of probability. Heat does not move from hot things to cold things due to an absolute law: it only does so with a large degree of probability. The reason for this is that it is statistically more probable that a quickly moving atom of the hot substance collides with a cold one and leaves it a little of its energy, rather than vice versa. Energy is conserved in the collisions, but tends to get distributed in more or less equal parts when there are many collisions. In this way the temperature of objects in contact with each other tends to equalize. It is not impossible for a hot body to become hotter through contact with a colder one: it is just extremely improbable.
This bringing of probability to the heart of physics, and using it to explain the bases of the dynamics of heat, was initially considered to be absurd. As frequently happens, no one took Boltzmann seriously. On 5 September 1906, in Duino near Trieste, he committed suicide by hanging himself, never having witnessed the subsequent universal recognition of the validity of his ideas.
Seven Brief Lessons on Physics, Carlo Rovelli (2014)
May 7, 2018
On Nomenclature
The Name of Odysseus
Language, modern linguists assure us, is an arbitrary system of signs. The Greeks were not so sure. The debate between those who maintain that language is purely conventional and their opponents who believe that language is "by nature" has a long history which cannot be traced here. But most early etymological speculation presupposes that a name and the thing denominated are closely related, i.e., that a name, correctly understood, indicates the nature of the thing named. The fact that many Greek proper names have transparent meanings (e.g., Aristodemus 'Best-of-the-people,' Telemachus 'Far-fighter,' and Patroclus 'Glory-of-the-father') lends powerful support to such a view. The more opaque names and epithets of the most mysterious of beings, the gods, and the famous heroes of the past tease the ingenuity of the Greeks from the earliest times. When Sappho ponders the meaning of Hesperus, the evening star, or when Aeschylus has the Chorus of the Agamemnon pause to reflect on the name of Helen, or when, in the same play, Cassandra recognizes the source of her destruction in the of Apollo, they are not indulging in mere punning or wordplay. Rather, they manifest a time-honored conviction that a proper understanding of a name will reveal the hidden nature of what the name designates. Such a name is called an onoma epnumon, a name that corresponds appropriately to the person or object designated. Homer and Hesiod offer numerous examples of this kind of etymological thinking, and it is not surprising that Homer should allow himself to speculate about the meaning of Odysseus.
Our attention has already been drawn to that name indirectly through its omission in the proem, which introduced an anonymous hero whose polytropic character is revealed in his passive ability to endure great suffering and in his active role as the man of metis. The same double perspective is retained at the end of the poem. After Odysseus and Penelope are finally reunited and have taken their pleasure in lovemaking, they each tell their stories. Odysseus' summary of his long travels and adventures - of his odyssey - is introduced as follows:
But Zeus-born Odysseus told her all - all the troubles he set upon men, and all that he himself had suffered in misery. (23. 306-308)
Troubles inflicted and troubles endured - these are the two-fold aspect of the hero. The name itself, Odysseus, embraces both and is profoundly ambiguous in its significance.
The Wrath of Athena: Gods and Men in The Odyssey, Jenny Strauss Clay (1996)
Language, modern linguists assure us, is an arbitrary system of signs. The Greeks were not so sure. The debate between those who maintain that language is purely conventional and their opponents who believe that language is "by nature" has a long history which cannot be traced here. But most early etymological speculation presupposes that a name and the thing denominated are closely related, i.e., that a name, correctly understood, indicates the nature of the thing named. The fact that many Greek proper names have transparent meanings (e.g., Aristodemus 'Best-of-the-people,' Telemachus 'Far-fighter,' and Patroclus 'Glory-of-the-father') lends powerful support to such a view. The more opaque names and epithets of the most mysterious of beings, the gods, and the famous heroes of the past tease the ingenuity of the Greeks from the earliest times. When Sappho ponders the meaning of Hesperus, the evening star, or when Aeschylus has the Chorus of the Agamemnon pause to reflect on the name of Helen, or when, in the same play, Cassandra recognizes the source of her destruction in the of Apollo, they are not indulging in mere punning or wordplay. Rather, they manifest a time-honored conviction that a proper understanding of a name will reveal the hidden nature of what the name designates. Such a name is called an onoma epnumon, a name that corresponds appropriately to the person or object designated. Homer and Hesiod offer numerous examples of this kind of etymological thinking, and it is not surprising that Homer should allow himself to speculate about the meaning of Odysseus.
Our attention has already been drawn to that name indirectly through its omission in the proem, which introduced an anonymous hero whose polytropic character is revealed in his passive ability to endure great suffering and in his active role as the man of metis. The same double perspective is retained at the end of the poem. After Odysseus and Penelope are finally reunited and have taken their pleasure in lovemaking, they each tell their stories. Odysseus' summary of his long travels and adventures - of his odyssey - is introduced as follows:
But Zeus-born Odysseus told her all - all the troubles he set upon men, and all that he himself had suffered in misery. (23. 306-308)
Troubles inflicted and troubles endured - these are the two-fold aspect of the hero. The name itself, Odysseus, embraces both and is profoundly ambiguous in its significance.
The Wrath of Athena: Gods and Men in The Odyssey, Jenny Strauss Clay (1996)