Gesamtkunstwerk

... it was. yesterday, i got a really weird question from wl, about why i keep so many bottles in my room. wtf, righe? so i replied like a parrot on speed, "one of my new years' resolutions was to drink more water." and revisited that old eyebrow-jerk feeling. bang - like Fuck - 1st quarter july!

so er, heh. ideas from january - no soups, no cutback, and... less water. wtf. done nothing! slacked even! so i'm thinking do a little update, just for the useless-trash hollow-candy-tube heck of it. just for fucks. in time with a new study term (school starts today, in 4 hours), i hereby lay down... the july resolutions.

• drink more water
• read like a pope
• do loooong overdue backups of old files
• and for every ciggie i crave at home, i will do 10 push-ups. this i learnt from doing alex's homework, 'integrated business', combine two ends to meet together. smart ey?
• do more than just think. after this blog i will touch-up some work and visit the old folios. for all i know about integrated business, i've gone through them once for revision, but forgot the more-importanat task of marking out the better ones. stupid ey?

so... do more than just think. in chinese there's an olden anti-procrasination slogan, 'tomorrows replace themselves; tomorrows are many.' they're an eternal excuse. excuses are frowned upon. today is what's real, best to be dealt with toe-to-toe, because u don't want more eternal excuses, as minutes flit away like butterflies in the playground sunshine of

yesterday.

in the east there lay a land. massive, mystic, built on bamboo, specked with quaint cottages by rolling rivers. fort-wall mountains stand holding the landscape, streaked by majestic pine adorned with round tufts of a million watercolour fronds. a velvet vapour cloaks the picture, perpetual and thick as the history the land tells.

it was an early cradle of culture, and as all of them go, it was steeped in legends of tyrants and corrupt courts standing for ambition and avarice. it was curtained in tales of suffering, famine, genocide, war, and violence unparalleled, in centuries of deplorable backstory.

it was also home to a poetry. graceful, steady, simply... poetic. not necessarily slow, delivered with stinging wit. (a poet once, in a royal death-penalty challenge of a piece in seven steps, immediately took them and chided the king with twenty crisp words of a bean-cooking analogy.)

it so happened that five thousand years later, a third of the globe south-and-west away, another land came under foreign occupation. the main story this time was slavery. westerners trespassed the bewildered country, yoked up and herded the people off - another third of the globe further west, to cut sugar cane. they fought, naturally. they'd been abducted - into oppression. and a hundred-odd years later, the kidnapped southerners in their new western home had regained much human rights.

they were proud of their short slave heritage and their... poetry. if u listen carefully, comparing to the eastern version, u'll soon hear the same roots in rhythm. if u listen carefully, it'll soon appear to be a shallow, paria imitation of the easterners' high art.

southern poetry - this is practised in an elaborate ritual of decking up in baggy costumes and loud chains, paying attention to even hairstyle details, and gathering under suburban flyovers to take turns at impromptu speaking. born from this regaling of sad life stories, was its invasion on mainstream media, prostituted under the guise of genre.

it doesn't matter whether it happens that there is a veritable link between suffering and song - as shown in these two different cultures in two different tongues. if u still don't believe that rap was stolen from the chinese... who were the original gangstas, triads?