Unbalanced Vision

"If you can laugh at yourself, loud and hard, every time you fall, people will think you're drunk."
Comedian Conan O'Brien

... is not found in this Chinese restaurant. Yet I am the who is twirling around right now--thanks to the one and half glass of red wine. The glass is half full and half empty.

After a rough day, it's become a habit that Erik, Katrin, and I would go hang out in Sarah's room and talk about nothing but nonsense. We just sit around and let our minds float in the air. Then Sarah and I would dive into a large bowl of popcorn, while Erik and Katrin watch. They say archeologists don't fancy popcorn.

Alexander Pope says the nastiest things about booksellers (combining the roles of publishers and booksellers in those days). Booksellers in the 18th century created a commercialised, low-class culture: tracking down personal correspondence and documents of the famous, and rushing them into print regardless of quality. This reminds me of my dad--certainly not that he's one of the nasty bunch; his publishing company is quite serious and decent. But that he's coming to London in less than a month for the annual book fair, and to visit his daughter who's suffering from essay hysteria.

"I was talking to my roommate (doctor's degree in music), she said it pays to get to the top, and that means you cannot be disturbed by every little thing that's on your mind... I take that as 'you cannot have anything irrelevant/trivial on your mind'. If so, being outstanding shouldn't be too difficult".

My very best friend: Alice in Maryland

The way we bloggers (that includes me, but not the 'royal we') express ourselves in cyberspace horrifies me. I question. You can read about a stranger's daily confessions from the trivialest detail to the broadest so-called concerns with society. Gone with the hagiographic biography, it's the age when you are secure and proud to tell your minor flaws to the world.
Are these on-line journals really verifiable, a true presentation of the authentic self, or a synthetic display of how you want to be seen by others? Honestly, and this is the only honest thing I shall declare: I cannot write down everything. I even destroy some past discarded writings--their existence mocks me.
And then there's the burgeoning industry of peeping toms, forming a loving relationship b/w the writer and the reader. Each being willing to believe and disbelieve.

Got to start working on my essay--prophecy in Henry VIII. Oh, well, a little break won't do no harm.

-Perfect- You're the perfect girlfriend. Which
means you're rare or that you cheated :P You're
the kind of chick that can hang out with your
boyfriend's friends and be silly. You don't
care about presents or about going to fancy
placed. Hell, just hang out. You're just happy
being around your boyfriend.


What Kind of Girlfriend Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

It has become a bad habit of mine to read the last page of a book before I actually reach there. This may be due to the fact that I cannot wait for results to come out. Anyways, while skimming through Greenblatt's Renaissance Self-Fashioning last night, I came upon the book's epilogue--a personal experience that sort of relates to his motivation for writing the book in the first place. The freaky chance meeting, and the desire to claim a self--it gave me an intensive feeling.

A few years ago, at the start of a plane flight from Baltimore to Boston, I settled down next to a middle-aged man who was staring pensively out of the window. There was no assigned seating, and I had chosen this neighbor as the least likely to disturb me, since I wanted to finish rereading Geertz's Interpretation of Cultures, which I was dues to teach on my return to Berkeley the following week. But no sooner had I fastened my seat belt and turned my mind to Balinese cock-fighting than the man suddenly began to speak to me. He was traveling to Boston, he said, to visit his grown son who was in the hospital. A disease had, among other consequences, impaired the son's speech, so that he could only mouth words soundlessly; still more seriously, as a result of the illness, he had lost his will to live. The father was going, he told me, to try to restore that will, but he was troubled by the thought that he would be incapable of understanding the son's attempts at speech. He had therefore a favor to ask me: would I mime a few sentences so that he could practice reading my lips? Would I say soundlessly, "I want to die. I want to die"?
Taken aback, I began to form the words, with the man staring intently at my mouth: "I want to..." But I was incapable of finishing the sentence. "Couldn't I say, 'I want to live'?" Or better still (since the seat belt sign had by this time flashed off), he might go into the bathroom, I suggested lamely, and practice on himself in the mirror. "It's not the same," the man replied in a shaky voice, then turned back to the window. "I'm sorry," I said, and we sat in silence for the rest of the flight.
I could not do what the man had asked in part because I was afraid that he was, quite simply, a maniac and that once I had expressed the will to die, he would draw a hidden knife and stab me to death or alternatively, activate some device secreted on boardthe plane that would blow us all to pieces (it's not for nothing that I have been living in California for the past ten years).
But if paranoia tinged my whole response, there was reasons for my resistance more complex than fear of physical attack. I felt superstitiously that if I mimed the mans terrible sentence, it would have the force, as it were, of a legal sentence, that the words would stick like a burr upon me. And beyond superstition, I was aware, in a manner more forceful than anything my academic research had brought home to me, of the extent to which my identity and the words I utter coincide, the extent to which I want to form my own sentences or to choose for myself those moments in which I will recite someone else's. To be asked, even by an isolated, needy individual to perform lines that were not my own, that violated my sense of my own desires, was intolerable.
When I first conceived this book several years ago, I intended to explore the ways in which major English writers of the sixteenth century created their own performances, to anayze the choices they made in representing themselves and in fashioning characters, to understand the role of human autonomy in the construction of identity. It seemed to me the very hallmark of the Renaissance that middle-class and aristocratic males began to feel that they possessed such shaping power over their lives, and I saw this power and the freedom it implied as an important element in my own sense of myself. But as my work progressed, I perceived that fashioning oneself and being fashioned by cultural institutions--family, religion, state--were inseparably intertwined. In all my texts and documents, there were, so far as I could tell, no moments of pure, unfettered subjectivity; indeed, the human subject itself began to seem remarkably unfree, the ideological product of the relations of power in a particular society. Whenever I focused sharply upon a moment of apparently autonomous self-fashioning, I found not an epiphany of identity freely chosen but a cultural artifact. If there remained traces of free choice, the choice was among possibilities whose range was strictly delineated by the social and ideological system in force.
The book I have written reflects these perceptions, but I trust that it also reflects, though in a manner more tentative, more ironic than I had originally intended, my initial impulse. For all of the sixteenth-century Englishmen I have written about here do in fact cling to the human subject and to self-fashioning, even in suggesting the absorption or corruption or loss of the self. How could they do otherwise? What was--or, for that matter, what is--the alternative? For the Renaissance figures we have considered understand that in our culture to abandon self-fashioning is to abandon the craving for freedom, and to let go of one's stubborn hold upon self-hood, even self-hood conceived as a fiction, is to die. As for myself, I have related this brief story of my encounter with the distraught father on the plane because I want to bear witness at the close to my overwhelming need to sustain the illusion that I am the principal maker of my own identity.

The author of one of my favourite books, Slaughterhouse Five, has something to say about war on Iraq. In this age of turmoil, society needs these pundits to come out and deliver words of wisdom, even if it's straightforward bluntness--"kiss my ass" and "asshole".
Fine art, be it literature, music, paintings, 'TV drama', cannot help serving all humanity, and make us less paranoid.

It's nice to wake up in the morning to a long, whole-hearted e-mail from a friend, telling you everything you need to know. Plus, msn messages from a former colleague saying that you did a great job at work, and that it's not the same without you in the office. Behind every 'cold-blooded, stoic' data transmission, there's a human person in charge. I live for compliments.

Vanessa gave me an easy-to-bake and yummy carrot cake recipe. The icing is particularly good. Thanks, V, you are a true gastronome.

蛋 2 個 糖 3/4 杯
沙拉油 3/4 杯 香草精 1/2 小匙
低筋麵粉 1 杯 小蘇打粉 1 小匙
肉桂粉 適量 鹽 1/2 小匙
胡蘿蔔 2 根 核桃 1/2 杯

霜飾部份‧奶油起司糖霜
軟化奶油 2 大匙 Cream cheese 2 oz.
檸檬皮絲 1 大匙 糖 1 杯

做法:
預 熱 烤 箱，烤 模 以 350 度 F ( 180 度 C ) 烤 45 ~ 50 分 鐘。
1. 先 將 烤 香 的 核 桃 切 成 碎 末，胡 蘿 蔔 削 皮 後 刨 成 細 絲。
2. 蛋、糖、沙 拉 油、香 草 精 混 合 後，加 入 全 部 的 乾 粉 類 攪 打 均 勻 ，再 拌 入 胡 蘿 蔔 絲 與 核 桃 末，將 生 料 倒 入 烤 模 即 可 烘 焙。
3. 將 軟 化 奶 油 與 cream cheese 打 發 成 糊 狀，加 入 檸 檬 皮 絲 與 糖 攪 打均 勻 至 糖 化 即 成 起 司 糖 霜。
4. 將 糖 霜 抹 在 攤 涼 的 蛋 糕 上 即 可。

I met Liam in the Senate House lift today. He's stepping out, I was just about to walk in. We both look exhausted. He's working on Milton, I'm trying to kill Shakespeare, but to no avail. I vaguely remembered the last thing he said was, "Got to work... I'm lagging behind". Ti's true. Yet I do think I'm slowly finding something. Wishful thinking.

It is not hard to understand Alexander Pope's concern about the decline of classics. In fact, this worry is ongoing and expanding, to the decline of literature in general. We were standing in front of the English Department office door, all quite amused by the heading of a course description: Sex and the City--A course on London Literature in the 18th century. What do we make of this? While making wry comments, inevitably, there's the need to combine pop culture with classics to make it more appealing, or at least not an antidote for insomnia. Just like one of Tate Britain's exhibition caption reads: The It Girls--was actually an 18th century Gainsborough painting display. These are to prove that classics, or literature is not dated. It can be trendy and fashionable, like the GQ, Time Out magazines you regularly read.
When the quarrel broke out in the late 17th century, people were excited by the new possibility of empirical science, mechanical skills, and 'technology' that was to lead the society. Humanistic values that derived from Greek and Roman literature, and the skill to read classical texts seemed no longer beneficial to our physical world. How can one feed on virtue, aesthetic taste, and epics? Ancient structures and standards became more and more impractical. Yet without the Renaissance cultural structure and standard, Pope saw a world that has lost its sense of classical beauty and dignity.
I suggest that the line could be blurred. Today there are computer programmers who write plays, and Lawyers who enjoy Homer. It is the openmindedness that leave you mesmerised by Chinese Opera and 'Silent Bob and Jake' comics. A guy told me once what type of building he would like to design, he said, "An old one--because it has more character."
The fascination of Renaissance and Early Modern is that it involves both the old and the new.

So much has been said about Shakespeare, and they have been done so well. Well enough that I wonder if there is ever space of improvement. If I am allowed just to squeeze into this tiny gap...

I baulk at the idea of celebrating love on that one day.
The question: How can you boost a can food's shelf life? is what matters.
如果記憶也是一個罐頭的話，我希望這罐罐頭不會過期；如果一定要加一個日子的話，我希望她是一萬年。
"If memory were a can, may it never expire; if I must give the can a date, may it be ten thousand years".
Chungking Express

15-second movie, no more, no less, is made by James Jung-Hoon Seo

Your computer can crash on you, your Internet is disconnected, you cannot join the work group, your icq doesn't work... etc.--all for no reason. But when dealing with human affairs, there has got to be a cause and an effect.

These days during my study, I find that a lot of the research has started out by making bold assumptions. Because one can never fully represent or re-live the past, therefore one speculates. However, once there's a speculation, it is our duty to search for bits and pieces of evidence to support the assumption. If it is wrong, you use other methods, or look for other materials. If you think the other person's opinion is covered with flaws, you have to prove that you are right. It is like a bunch of people playing jigsaw puzzle; until the picture reveals its story. In this field, "there may be facts out there, but they can only be approached by way of opinion". What I am trying to say is, it is so important to make fearless assumptions, and courageously defend your point and convince others what you think might be the case. All is done within the realms of logic. The study of literature, I find, is in fact very scientific. As a student from the East (or maybe I shouldn't relate this to the education in Taiwan), we may passively accept what is said on the printed text. We might be afraid to make hypothesis, because it might appear stupid. Stupid can be the pathway to truth, or close enough to fact. If there is one.

"Sundance is weird. The movies are weird--you actually have to think about them when you watch them."
Britney Spears, pop singer, at the Sundance Film Festival

"The One" is a lonely number.
Why not make it two, three, four, or zero?
How about 1/2 or even 3/7?
If I were 1/2, would you be the other 1/2, too?

Mike: Someday I will visit Toronto while you're not around, and play with your toy. You've heard how I drive... be very afraid. As your most loving cousin, I'm sure you won't mind.

The streets are hijacked by pink, mauve, and hearts; Cupid is out on the run. It's the time of the year when you are supposed to be love-struck. In this day and age, sentimental slush seems to get away with everything. I am not a big fan of 007, but I will always remember the scene in Golden Eye when the Russian Bond girl tells the villian, "Take him (Bond) away, he means nothing to me." The audience knows that she doesn't really mean it, but that's the fun part. Saying the opposite creates intensity.
Or you can go to another extreme--"You are so beautiful. I love you so much I want to smash your face in with a sledge-hammer." "I love you so much I want to rip out your eyeballs and suck on them and then punch you in the nuts."
Punch-Drunk Love

On his way home, HY told me three of his real life moron stories, plus one about a page--"A Tale of the Morons and the Page"
It basically goes like this: 1. Dumb kids attempting to steal a scooter, and was recorded by CCTV. 2. A guy who claims that he was just released, and doesn't know how to use a cell phone. 3. A woman who wouldn't move aside just because she's getting off at the next stop (and so is all the other passengers on the tube). I like the story about "The Page" the best. Two complete strangers who are sitting side by side on the tube, happens to be reading the same book, and both reaching the same page. Now how in a million years can you encounter something like that?

"... although I have neither power, time nor occasion to conquer the world as Alexander and Caesar did; yet rather than not to be mistress of one, since Fortune and the Fates would give me none, I have made a world of my own: for which no body, I hope, will blame me, since it is in every one's power to do the like."
Margaret Cavendish

The discovery of a new world might lead to colonialism; but the creation of one is pure wit and playfulness. It can do no harm.

Sometimes I have the bleakest view of academic research life. In a room full of PhD students wannabes, the graduate student tutor ended the workshop with something like, "The good thing about an academic research career is that you will have the most autonomy in what you produce; but--you won't get to have nice cars". That is just profoundly sad. Unfortunately, this is not the only dark side of it all: You are basically on your own; you lead a solitary life. It's most unlikely to get a funding, and in the end, you might end up doing studies that people have already done ages ago. So, first do a research on "a gap in the market". Sigh...

We come in different shapes and sizes.
Once in a while, on my way to school, I would come across a physically-challenged person in Russel Square. Either I hasten my footsteps, try looking ahead to avoid direct eye contact, or I pretend that there is nothing different. But our eyes are biased. We look away because we know we cannot see 'fairly'.

I am so happy to have finally handed in my essay. For the first time this past seven days, I am enjoying the act of cooking and dining--my own food.

Are not Religion & Politics the Same Thing?
William Blake

Here lies the Eikon Basilike published in 1648/1649. There was no single illustration, only a frontispiece of a king kneeling down in prayer. This image was etched on peoples' memories; aroused sympathetic emotions for a once unfavorable monarch now that has lost his last breath on the scaffold. The book topped the bestseller list. It's one main reason: the use of religion as a selling point. You want people to support you, so you go sentimental and spiritual, you kneel down and pray, you pretend to be Christ. You persuade. Just like what politicians do. Luckily, everyone's soul is elevated. You have succeeded. Milton persuaded, too, in his book. But he only sold three copies. Wrong strategy--it's all about marketing. The 17th century is no less different than 2003: In the world of publishing, everyone is fair. Win the hearts of the public, and you shall not die in vain.

The cube is within my mind's eye,
Built with logic and reason
The things I live by.
It has parallels; it keeps perfect scale,
While I stick to these boundary's I can never fail
Forget about anger or needless aggressions,
Remember all feelings have three dimensions.
The first the feeling, whatever it shall be,
The second reaction for others to see,
The third the consequence of what you have done
The dividers of balance may not overcome.
This cubic place you should not expand,
Your brain should not change upon demand.
People look on, watching a solar eclipse,
At others who live in an expanding ellipse.
Neil Hudson

I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate wilfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
Robert Frost

She will return.