Musings on life and how I choose to interpret it…

I got no words

no words

all I’ve got is pebbles pebbles pebbles marbles pebbles

Is your mouth really the portal into your mind? Or have you cursed its easy impulses?

The way your jaws clench and your tongue beats against the roof of the mouth.

Has there ever been any thing that escaped the crushing swipe of your sniveling lips?

The smack of your neurons as they light your mind in ways that sometimes seem beyond your control.

Are they in spite of you or are they intrinsic?

The orifice … the holy, the sticky, the life and pus.

Flow out your mouth, don’t tempt them with spit.

For what is the heft of consequence, but your earth-shattering indifference?

And what curls up, do they wish of malice or embarassment?

They speak of a loneliness that stretches through abandoned warehouses and decaying apartments.

They sing of songs that rocks have forgotten, of mountains young and trees nubile.

When reflections scatter, and ripples disappear…

In its place remains the very essence,

Of what you are not what you thought of.

And what you won’t be when you get there.

So just be.

A word is born

In my head;

It trails after your being

Breathlessly following crashing falling endlessly

Your scent & descent

Condense with the imprints of your silence.

Of the drinks we swallowed and the problems that we drank,

Of cocktails and hallucinogens that disappear

With passing neurons, that free and imprison us listlessly

but as true as night is dark and as devious are fawning remarks — my word will remain conceived sheltered cosseted and cradled

forever unspoken

But Always There.

There is nothing to say. I’m a little worried about my state of tepidity. The week has been grey and sullen, as if we somehow forgot to invite it to a party that everyone in the cooler next day was excitedly talking about. And now it has brought everyone else down with its dreary jive.

A brief hullabaloo about the TTC strike on the weekend made things a little interesting, but then Monday came and suddenly everyone was reminded about their spilling workload. Days came and went, sprinkling a dismissive shower here and there, going on and on and on and on.

My video project grant application got rejected. I suppose that’s partly to blame for my inordinately glum blog entry. The people behind the donor explained that they had to siphon the grant money to “Toronto priority projects”. My first disappointment of the year. Imagine a volcano caving unto itself. A tire deflating, a pyramid of leaves collapsing and eventually scattered by the wind.

I’ve got nothing to say but I felt like I needed to post something. I’m actually not as depressed as I’m making it out to be, quite melodramatically you could add. I’m just teetering on glib jadedness and a steady vacuum of inspiration. My D-SLR is despondently staring at me through its 14-45mm wide lens; I can’t call it accusing, more like disappointed. My surroundings are implacably sterile; there could be green organic matter oozing out from the walls right now, and all I would’ve noticed was its lack of urgency.

A bomb could go off next door and I’d instantly notice the loosening hinges of the door. OK, maybe that was a little insincere. I probably would’ve scampered underneath my bed if I heard a bang. But I still would’ve commented on the sagging underpinnings.

I’ve got nothing to say and all I can think about are my drooping shoulders. I can’t argue, my greetings are forced and my voice is as dejected as a twelve-year old who gets a pack of new socks for his birthday gift.

It’s Thursday night and I’ve got nothing to say. I had dinner — it was OK. Watching Jon Stewart online and I realize that he’s a comic genius, nonpareil, of our times. And all I can muster is a half-hearted chuckle. It’s Thursday night and suddenly I wish I was out drinking instead. It’s Thursday night: chilly, quiet and funereal.

It’s Thursday night, I’m as fit as I’ve ever been lately, and man — I’ve got nothing to say. I could enthrall you with my activist work, my nomination as the Chairperson of something, my conversations with interesting people, my romantic failures, my work and my plays, my highs and my lows…instead I’ve got nothing to say.

The tunes on my ipod scatter the distortions in my head, but like a school of fish huddling back after the dust settles down, I’m as blank and unresponsive as before. I crack my fingers and nothing still happens. My brother cracks a joke and nothing. A stranger with a tight pair of jeans, silhouetted deliciously against the glare of the streetcar lights, and nothing. Compared to me right now, even the traffic lights seem to change with more enthusiasm.

You say: bah! chin up already. You’re young, relatively debt-free, working in a great office with an even greater mentor. Your bills are paid (well, some of it), your health is sound (except for that slightly recent ache in the back), your moral fibers are firm (most of the times), you’re starting to get a foot into the talk of the community, you’re not all that dumb or bad-looking. So chin the fuck up, dude.

And I guess I agree. I have nothing to be so humdrum about. If my existence is so ordinary, it should be something to be grateful about. Compared to the many who live in constant fear and real poverty, I am a spoiled duke. A flat tire is my main concern while people out there actually have bullets to dodge. I live in a bustling city, and I work in a fantastic community. No exposed, tin roofs letting in the piercing cold rain.

I’ve got nothing to say, but in the course of an hour, I’ve managed to spool off quite a few threads of my recent discomfiture. Funny how some of my entries seem to take a life of its own, albeit a zombie-like state in this instance. I suppose I could put this into my “organic” category. Ha ha. Bloody zinger.

Its an hour to midnight, sleep is slowly creeping up my bones, I’ve got nothing else to say but end this note with a fascinating video that my friend Derek sent my way.

I hope you’ve had a much more meaningful state of affairs. If you like, you can regale me with it, but be warned: all I could probably muster is a distracted “meh”.

Good night.

If you happened to be shopping downtown on Yonge St. this afternoon, you probably came across the sea of red and the piercing howls that was the pro China demonstration on Dundas Square today. It was an impressive crowd, with Chinese people from all walks of life, chanting “One China! One China!” and applauding themselves at various signaled intervals. You could’ve sworn this was February all over again — the Chinese new year déjà vu. Where were the dancing dragons and child acrobats with silk ribbons?

The reason for the demo today, though, was entirely removed of any cultural or political significance. The event was organized, believe it or not, by international Chinese student groups who were upset about the media coverage of the recent uprisings in Tibet. They wanted Toronto to know the unfettered, unbiased and unadulterated truth — so they handed out copies of “damning” evidence under instructions of the Chinese consulate. The gist of their argument: Tibetans were the violent troublemakers behind the unrest inside Tibet (they deserved what they got); China is one and, above all else, Tibetans should be grateful for that. The obvious face-slapping truth of China’s bloody hands behind the suffering of Tibetans is just western propaganda, and you should be shameful for even having thought of that. We’ll harass the shit out of you if you think otherwise.

I’m not even kidding. Towards the conclusion of the event, at various instances, the Chinese participants mobbed and yelled down with relish anyone who dared to engage with them about Tibet. A Canadian man in the middle of the participants exposed his shirt which had a flag of Tibet on the pocket which absolutely drove the mob into fits and, if it were not for the swift response of the cops, the whole thing would’ve turned very ugly very quickly. At another instance, a fat Chinese boy with a hoodie, who couldn’t have been a year over twenty, shoved and cussed at a person who talked about the dead Tibetans from the last couple of weeks. Old folks were screaming, “You don’t know the truth! You never been to China!” “Liar!”

The whole thing would’ve been ridiculously funny if not for the dangerous underpinnings. This was a large crowd of mostly adults who gathered and exulted in their abject nationalistic fervour. The whole idea behind this event was to show that the greatness of China overshadowed and overwhelmed any aspect of human rights or freedoms. In a pointedly candid display of misplaced fealty, they placed the might of the party before the rights of the citizens. And most worryingly of all, this happened in Toronto, Canada: a place where you can glean all versions of the facts, and not just the one fed down the tubes of the Communist propaganda machine.

If a community of thousands, across an ocean and a continent from its “motherland”, can be shepherded so blindly and easily, what does that mean for the billions in China who actually don’t have the free access to media like we do here in Canada? I try not to exaggerate online, but I’m absolutely serious when I say that I felt like a Jew who inadvertently stumbled into a Nazi rally when the call of Aryan superiority was first spreading throughout Germany. This was how the monks must’ve felt when the cadres of the Red Army, drunk on their premature jingoism, destroyed the monasteries in Tibet and burned Buddhist texts with demented glee during the Cultural Revolution.

It was a chilling reminder about the extent of China’s oppressive tactics. And it was heartbreaking to see otherwise rational human beings being filled with toxic emotions that encourage mass terror and mob justice. Is this what we’re up against? I have to commend the brilliance of the fucking party officials who have honed their crafts and mastered the art of intimidation and shock therapy. After all, they did have the best in the business when it comes to purging millions and torturing the soul out of a nation.

But this was in Toronto. In Canada. This isn’t some village deep in the country of China. We have more than a dozen news channels just in Toronto, and more international ones, including the CCTV of China. How then do you reconcile this fact with the many Chinese students and adults who were adamant in their accusations that the news of Tibet circulating around here were just western media propaganda? When they are aware that China actually shut down Tibet from any international reporters in response to the protests there? When they even kicked their own press people outside of Tibet? When their own intellects have been calling on the government to act differently back in China?

These were university students. How do you explain that? How the fuck…my head hurts just thinking about this.

Scanning the crowd of over a thousand, I saw lots of young, smiling faces unsure of what this demonstration was really about; and mostly excited because they were in such a large gathering in downtown Toronto. Toting Chinese and Canadian flags, they amassed on the edge of the square towards Yonge St., and menacingly stared down the small band of Tibetan protesters who, in spite of the request from the local Tibetan organizations, spiritedly answered the pro China event for the sake of the Tibetans being killed in Tibet right now. The evening news coverage of the demo actually had equal time for the counter-Beijing actions taken today. Take note international students from mainland China: this is what a balanced news report actually means.

I’m glad we decided not to engage the Tibetan community into this. A riot would’ve been inevitable. And this is just what the Chinese officials would’ve craved back in Beijing — a distraction.

As I was about to leave the Dundas Square, I caught sight of one particular Chinese man with whom I just couldn’t help starting a conversation. I had seen what happens when you try to talk up the issue about Tibet as a Tibetan supporter, so I tried to approach this with an objective angle — I pretended to be a Korean reporter. And this was the person in question:

Now, first of all, it took all of my earthbound, human/activist strength just to stifle a chuckle. I mean, seriously – how can you not look at this person waving a fucking UN flag and just convulse with laughter right there on the street? Really, who makes this shit up? I just had to pry this mind open and find out what was cooking his noodles.

“Hi, I’m a reporter from Korea Times. I see you have a UN flag there — can you please tell me why you’ve brought this particular flag to this event here?”

When I first approached him, he seemed a little hesitant. Maybe he thought no one would think twice about a pro China demonstrator waving a flag with the UN symbol on it. It was only after I told him that I was Korean that he loosened up a little. He said he had lots of Korean friends in his athletic club. He even showed me an insignia on his jacket to prove his case.

“I bring it, y’know, to show that we want peace. Tibetans — they create trouble. China want peace.” [sic, from his end, all the way through]

“Right. Do you know that China actually doesn’t want the UN to look into the issue of Tibet? They’ve vetoed against any talk about Tibet at the general assembly.”

“Yes, yes. The problem in Tibet now OK. Tibet is OK.”

I think he was missing my point entirely, so I proceeded with another angle: “Would you support the UN going into Tibet and finding out what’s the problem there?”

“Tibet have no problem. I been there. Tibet OK now. I just want world peace.”

“Tibet has no problem? Then why are there so many Tibetans protesting in Tibet?”

“Tibet have no problem. Tibetans just violent and do looting in Lhasa. I was in Tibet, y’know. Tibetans there happy under China.”

At this point I must’ve had a purple, knobby vein throbbing against my temple, but I kept my cool. For the sake of… journalistic integrity. Yes, that’s what.

“But the violence was only inside Lhasa. Everywhere else in Tibet it was mostly peaceful, and the Chinese army still clamped down on them violently. Do you support their tactics?”

“I don’t know. I just know Tibet is OK now. Don’t worry. Everybody want world peace.”

“Do you support the way the Chinese government has not allowed for any form of protest in Tibet, regardless of whether they are peaceful or not?”

“What?”

Somewhere in this conversation, a random white dude just walked up to us and joined in this discussion.

“What I’m saying is — you see that here in Canada, everyone has the right to protest if it is peaceful. You can’t do that in Tibet or even China. How do you feel about that?”

This is where the stammering begins, and I’m not ashamed to say that I smiled inwardly for reducing him to a blathering fuckwit.

“I…I…I don’t know. We just want to show the rest of the world that China is fine. Tibet is OK now. I been there, y’know.”

“But that’s really not the case. Lots of Tibetans inside Tibet are unhappy with the Chinese government. How do you feel about that?”

“Tibetans…they don’t know. They just…cause violence and loot other people’s properties…”

“Yes, but this was mostly in Lhasa, and only for a couple of days. The rest of the protests were peaceful.”

“Tibetans…they don’t know…they very violent.”

This was one of the few instances when the random white guy chipped in from the periphery. “You sound really condescending and mean when you say that. Look, you’re even smiling when you say those things about the Tibetans. That’s not right, man.”

I wasn’t really seeking any third-party validation from this tiresome exercise, but I was relieved that it wasn’t just me not eating the horseshit this UN flag-waving, pro Communist China sheep was spewing.

As I shook hands with both men and started to part my ways, I turned back one last time and asked him where in Tibet he had really been, since he brought it up so often during our brief discussion.

“Oh — just in Lhasa…”

“Just in Lhasa?”

“Yeah, y’know, and … Ching village.”

I swear I’m not making this up. Right from his hesitant tone to the abrupt pause before he came up with this utterly believable name for a village inside Tibet (Ching or Jing, I forget), it was plain as fresh snow that this guy had a seriously skewed knowledge of Tibet and China’s history. And his smiling attitude for maintaining this kind of dangerous mindset was just the icing on the cake that I didn’t want.

He couldn’t even pull off his bullshit act convincingly. If it’s any consolation, at least my portrayal of a Korean reporter was spot-on. Down to my name: Hong Sung Park. Korea Times Daily. Without a shred of thought. A pro, through and through.

I sure hope Mr. “Cary” is looking forward to this interview in tomorrow’s papers.

What a mess. Yeesh!

It begins with a whisper. A murmur that escapes like steam from an open sauna room. It grows quietly, collecting the apprehensions and memories of lost years. It drips through every crack, through every pore in the surface, and infects it with an unmistakable hint of Clarity.

It shakes the foundation. It breaks a dam. It corrodes fear and eliminates doubts.

This thing, this surge, this fuel that ignites a movement and sweeps a generation along with it, it feeds off and into the nectar of Things To Come. This elixir inebriates an individual’s hesitancy, and jolts it with an electric shiver that tingles the fingertips and swells the chest till the heart thumps against it with such an aching vigour that your hands tremble and your sight turns tunnel vision.

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One Two Three Four Five

With the advent of cheap wireless service, everyone and their dog these days seems to have an annoying ringtone ready to clamour from beneath the pockets and abruptly cut any conversation short. It sinks to an especially disconcerting level when you see monks and nuns thoroughly engaged in texting SMS messages or talking and configuring their cellphones while doing their rounds around the stupa. Gone are the days of crowding around in amazement as a bemused tourist toggled around with an FM radio receiver. There is a sense that people in Kathmandu nowadays project an aura of artificial engagement, as if they were as competent a multi-tasker as traders from Wall Street.

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Parts: One Two Three Four

The sprawling stupa of Boudhanath, one of the largest in the world, is an important site for the millions of Buddhists in the valley. Located on the north-eastern flank of the valley, at about eleven kilometers from the city centre, the town of Boudhanath has also served as an historic trading spot for the traders from Tibet and the areas around it. Tamangs – from the Tibetan words ‘ta’ & ‘mang’: the former meaning horse, and the latter for war; they are said to have descended from the horseman warriors of an ancient Tibetan lineage – predominantly inhabit this bustling tourist area, along with a healthy population of Tibetan settlers who have prospered with the wide appeal of Tibetan rugs and Tibetan Buddhism.

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Parts: One Two Three

There has always been an air – the thinnest of it, but still there nonetheless – of loathing between the pahaadis (folks from the hilly areas) and the ones who live in the plain (terai in Nepali) regions of Nepal. Although Nepal’s record in multi-ethnic harmony and cohabitation is commendable, the seams of contempt and distrust have always been there and it is more complex in a large, central city such as Kathmandu.

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Parts: One Two

Winter in Nepal is a muggy and cooped up affair. Due to the temperate weather with which they’re used to for most of the year, Nepalis (at least in Kathmandu and further south) aren’t quite adept at dealing with the two-three months of cold that passes by. They bundle up in as many layers as they can, and they hunch their shoulders and bring their limbs close to their bodies. They tend to look like they’re consoling themselves of some regrettable thoughts. People on the side of the streets, those invariably cursed with a need of busyness and blessed with a generous heap of idle time, huddle around makeshift warming spots served by no less than empty, tossed out garbage bags. Jokes and grievances are exchanged around the smell of burning plastic and cardboard boxes, as children and street dogs caper about to brush the cold off of them. The sun shines with a relative ferocity (for the time), and in some cases, even forces those under it to retreat to the shade, wherein they right away shiver and console themselves back again under the forceful embrace of the heat. Insulated houses are a privileged exception, so most people have to make do with blankets or hazardous indoor heaters powered by kerosene to keep themselves warm in the freezing evenings.
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