Mothers of Invention 2

some bug or other prevented me from adding to my previous post; everything here is in chinese, and i can't figure out how to translate everything into english. so i'm posting what i wrote as a new entry:

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Later: no matter where i am, what i do, i feel myself soon enough settling into routine. (shameless self-promotion: one of my most unreliable narrators, from a short i completed a couple months ago, speaks quite extensively about this manner of living, of seeing life.) M. John Harrison opens Nova Swing with three quotes, the third credited to John Gray, from his 'exciting, radical work of philosophy', Straw Dogs:

Our lives are more like fragmentary dreams than the enactment of conscious
selves.

apart from being the perfect description of Mr Harrison's writing, i have the uncomfortable privilege (for lack of a better turn of phrase) of knowing exactly what he means. or thinking i know. of being, if you will, in dangerous proximity to these words. if you know what i mean.

after enjoying a stick of Japanese Crispy Chicken (deep fried chicken skewers in nori wraps), i wandered into a busy little mall of mostly low-end stalls: hawkers, tailors, parlors, wholesale electronics and clothing shops (one of them carrying, sans brand, a pair of dress shoes exactly like the ones i'd recently bought for work), a Watson's and a Burger King. desiring to distinguish myself from the--to my impishly deranged and contrary mind--touristy desire to 'soak up the culture', and knowing full well that i would have at least two full years to 'soak it up' and therefore not wanting to saturate myself too soon, i decided to walk into the BK for an early dinner. i wanted a Whopper.

'Would you like to try our specials? We have spicy chicken, spicy beef, and spicy something else or other.' the impending Chinese New Year informs the flyer he shows me.

'All right.'

'Chili sauce with your fries?'

whereas anywhere else the slightly orangey tang of the sauce smothering the dry, unapologetically white meat patty of the spicy BK chicken sandwich i had would have struck me as not unpleasantly odd, it somehow managed to scream 'SPORE CITY' in my ears with every bite.

drats. foiled again.

*

on the blogosphere: i see the ripples of consensus reality, the subconscious thread that weaves, winds and ultimately connects us all and subtly saturates Simon Ings' The Weight of Numbers; i see that, like Zen in Darkness, and 'the shape of modern SF' and literature in general as 'art' imitates 'life' and thereby defines, for the willing, the times, a lot of you have turned your eyes inward. should i applaud? bask in our unity in individualistic solipsism while it lasts? or wonder at the unimaginable, improbable yet probably inevitable backlash as action begets reaction begets reaction?

further on the connectedness of everything, these had me spooked:

http://uzwi.wordpress.com/2007/02/05/february-blue/ http://uzwi.wordpress.com/2007/02/06/sleeping-rough-in-the-hall-of-mirrors/

of course it's ridiculous for me to make anything of it: so what if i'd just been thinking these things as i began banging about in a new life i never thought i'd put on? signed the contract for the bedroom i will, hopefully, be renting for the next two years? i, after all, have never read anything by Nick Flynn, though i once browsed through a couple pages of Another Bullshit Night... in some bookshop or other back home.

meaning is where you choose to find it; it may be time for me to admit: i'd been reading too much M. John Harrison.

ah, well. i'm off; back to Nova Swing. and tomorrow: work, at last.