arcyoung

Marcus and I have been back in touch again since his trip home in Oregon. Strictly speaking, I was 'tricked' into talking to him on the phone. That was a Sunday afternoon, he sent this text message saying 'I really need to talk to you. Can we talk?' Judging from the wording, I thought something serious must have happened to him. Only later did I realize I thought too much. Now I can't recall who initiated the call. He talked endlessly on the phone with happiness. He said it was really good to hear my voice again. And I could sense in his voice that there was this sheer excitement that he cannot withold. Family issues were used as his pretext to approach me. Something did happen

I came to school one hour ago. With music from iPod still haunting my ears, I decided to sit down and recollect myself through writing an entry for my blog. 

A few days after I got out of this weird relationship, things all seem back to normal. Marc's voice slowly fades away and retreats to the space reserved for memory. In my head, his voice is still fresh, still vivid and concrete. Marc's voice always amazes me with its wide range of manifestation. Sometimes his voice is strong and decisive, sometimes weak and fragile, sometimes cold and indifferent, yet sometimes bewitched and bewildered.... Never do I realize the strength of my faculty of hearing until a time when his voice ceases to viberate in the air. This particular faculty has been sharpened and refined by the distance that keeps us apart. And sadly, it will be this same distance that renders the faculty of hearing rusty.

I got up this morning without the conversation with Marc. A reality I have got used to. We often had a morning conversation everyday. The time difference of two hours made his calling me at 8 am (eastern) totally impossible. I was the one who always initiated the call. The morning call usually lasted no more than 30 minutes. I often started the conversation with a rather lazy 'Hello' that had a power of bringing people back to sleep. Marc always liked that. It was quite evident in his voice - the previously confident, full male voice that gave off a ray of maturity and experience would turn into a rather boyish voice that could tickle people with a sort of naivete and innocence. I always liked this subtle change in his voice. There was no pattern for the rest of our conversation. It could be anything, from silly jokes to serious discussions of life. But this morning, yes, this morning, I was up without a voice, only with a half-empty heart. Suddenly I realized that maybe life cannot be discussed but only be felt in silence.

I thought I'd wake up at 7:45, as yesterday. I did not. A good sleep always seems endless, a bad one is full of chasm and uncertainty. My sleep was haunted with the image of Marcus: my holding this intimate guy far away, the self-consciousness of my attachment to him and the possibility of losing him someday. I couldn't pretend to be sleeping anymore. I woke up.

Chen Lan called me last night. We haven't chatted for quite a while. The first time we met I just entered junior high school. Back then my mom had a surgery at a local women's hospital. Chen Lan's mother was a nurse there. Soon my mom and her mom became good friends. Chen Lan was introduced to me as a sister and more importantly as a private tutor. I never seriously learned anything from her except a few techniques, as far as I can recall. I'd probably blame her for making me lose all my interests in physics. She's the one who taught physics as mathematics. If mathematics is all about abstraction, physics differs from it by its empirical component (the dialectics as I would call today). I still remember that she told me to take physics as another mathematics, to play with different formulas. Rather than understanding the background of each formula. In retrospect, I'd say my intellectual underdevelopment at high school could be partly attributed to her guidance. But what happened, happened. She's still a friend of mine.

We talked a few things last night. Kids, husband, household work and love relationships. She's totally changed into another person since the first day I met her. Today she's a peaceful and modest mother with two kids. Not an aggressive material woman she used to be. Life is powerful. I'd say it's life that has taken her where she stands today, how she positions herself and conceives her relation to her family. Perhaps a family is a structure that stablizes people in it and teaches people the importance of closeness.

Chen Lan knew I dated a guy before. Every time she inquires if i have a girlfriend yet. I lied to her last night. She sounded happy and thought I finally had hopped back to the right track. She started giving me hints at how to maintain a love relationship. She talked about the importance of living together before a marriage. That (living a life together) is important because two people finally see through the image one has for the other and therefore gets to know each other better.

I thought of Marcus and I, the future of us. Feeling pessimistic. I can't see the light of our future, only darkness. If there's ever light, it's a flash of light (just like fireworks) in the night sky. We are meeting up soon, in less than 30 days. What goes around, comes around. Two years ago we met on gay.com chatroom and I cheated him. Two years later we started chatting again on msn and now will meet soon. Isn't life interesting? It's just like a cycle that brings all the people in. Some will find each other and be together, some meet each other and never see again, some never have a chance to do that. I'd say I'm lucky because he's not forgotten me and I haven't forgotten him either. I'm lucky because we are creating something together, if only an image, an imagination.

I love marcus. He's romantic, loving, caring, sensitive. A romantic has his romantic way of life and death. I'm testing this statement now. And in front of life and death, reason simply flakes off.

I've been absorbed into the books in the past month. Three books have been finished: Theorizing Feminism (which was started a long time ago and has been read through word by word); No Place To Learn (which is written by two retired professors in the department of political science); and Introduction to Leo Strauss (which presents a brief analysis of Leo Strauss's major works). After feminism, my focus has been shifted towards identity politics and multiculturalism that are partly opened up by the third approach of feminism (the difference approach). To deal with this particular area, certain authors have been selected. Including Charles Taylor, Anthony Appiah, Nancy Fraser, Iris Marion Young, and Jurgen Habermas. A second thought exposes the weakness of this general direction: on what ground is the issue of identity politics and multiculturalism is meaningful? under or in what framework can this issue be discussed? I subsequently have found a course titled Justice on MIT OPENCOURSEWARE to deal with my particular question. Readings of this course are wide-ranging, from Jeremy Benthem to John Rawls. Such a wide coverage of major theorists in the past two centuries greatly interests me. Moreover, the course is designed in such a way that each newly introduced theoretical framework is complemented by concrete case studies like final decisions of the American Supreme Court. So structured, learner of this course is provided space sufficent in which what he has learnt can be applied. In an effort to deepen the understanding of the historical setting and biographical details of certain authors, J.S. Mill's Autobiography is chosen as a companion reader to this course. Having gone astray from the original plan, I have paid particular attention to the self-development of Mill as a philosopher and his romantic turn from the state of so-called 'reasoning machine'. The plan is abruptly interrupted by a man in Boston. His name is Marcus McCown.

Marcus is someone I got to know online about 18 months ago. I never paid attention to this guy. I simply took him as another random appearance in the chatrooms. Somehow we got to exchange our msn and so keep in contact. Once in a while, he sent me emails and left some offline messages. I never took them seriously. Just replied his emails in a friendly yet indifferent manner. Well, who would care about someone far apart and to whom I had had not feelings. Things began to change recently. He started to send me messages again. I cautiously replied some of the messages and thought it would just fine talking this person. Out of curiosity and the desire to reduce my tiredness, I chatted with him online. The more we chatted, the more emotional and fanciful we became. We talked about men, about marriage, about love relationships, about life, about so many different things. I began to be attracted to someone so life-oriented and so romantic. I could not help thinking that I would like this guy although he is so far far away. This reminds me again of the painful memory between Gary and I two years and half ago. It was a trap, a bottomless trap. Once you are stuck in it, it takes a very long time to get out of it, get rid of it and recover. I'm not sure if I want to do the same thing this time. It's very risky and perhaps even dangerous. Is it worth spending more psychic energy on a man I've never seen before? Would this deadly attraction to this man interrupt my study and life plan? Would this change my life in many ways? I don't know. Why do I fall into the same trap over and over again? I blame the city I live in too small and not culturally diverse; I wish to move to a bigger city, a multicultural city to fall in love. I want to leave Edmonton for Toronto. One thing I'm very sure is that I do not move to Toronto for Marcus. It's perhaps not worth it. I move there for my own purpose. I don't know... Confused.

Tuesday, the first snow day this winter. Upon finishing this sentence, I start to question the grammatical correctness of the usage of "snow day". I am not sure about how a native speaker (or, more accurately speaking, an English major) would describe such a day. Snow day or Snowy day? I don't know. But I'm insistent about this usage because the source of the self-justification comes simply from my feelings. Because I feel I'm rightly describing this day in a way that particularly appeals to me.

It's the first snow day. Snow has been falling from sky down to the ground for quite a few hours (I'm not sure if it continues to do so at this time of evening). But it's not the first day snow makes itself appear in this city. Snow secrectly landed in an anonymous night, without notice. It hastily left us in the following morning among students' laughters, workers' busyness and elders' slowness. In this first snow day, snow dropped down smoothly riding the blowing wind, quite visibily. It unselectively landed on earth and covers the yellowish grass.The yellowish grass must have been longing for this moment for some time -- it needs snow as the comfortable blanket, as the energy source for the next life cycle to transcend death and its inevitability. People react to snow differently, though. Some, like me, are pretty excited about the arrival of delicate snowflakes, who always regard the snowfalling as a natrual performance of subtlety, delicacy, elegance and unpredicability. Some, like Jamie, are indifferent. Perhaps confined to a certain space, citizens of this snow country have developed some immunities to the changes and swiftness of snowflake dance.

I always like snow. As someone from south sub-tropical China, I'm always amazed by the beauty of snow. I like its color, which is a symbol of purity and innocence. I like its shape -- regulated and structural. There has been 10 years during which I never had any snow in winter. The most recent memory of snow in my childhood dated back to, 1991. I was 6, the first-grader. We had very heavy snow  and a lot of kids slipped down because of the road conditions. It was early 1990s -- in the south, a lot roads were built without the consideration of heavy snow. It was somewhat unusual that year. Kids made snowmen and threw to each snowballs. That's all I got in my memory. But let me talk about some more recent ones. The first time I saw snow again here in Canada was 4 years ago. It was some day in late October. I was sitting at the study desk in the Schaffer Hall. I never anticipated that snow could come so soon. But I saw it. Little, fragile and meallable, snowflakes began to cover the campus. I realized that fragile entitiies could also form a union to extert the strength. Rather happily, I thought I was the some very few lucky ones in this world to have been able to see snow again. To my surprise, most regions in China that year also got snow. It remains strange thing in my mind because somehow my dream of monoplizing the joy of living in snow was awakened. Many people back home also had the opportunity to enjoy or hate the snow. It was no longer a previlege, at least to the extent that it was scarce anymore. After a few years, it remains a previlege I guess. Because when people back home don't see snow anymore, I'm still seeing it (big time!). Though much later than usual.

It's the last day of the long weekend in Canada, commemorating the Second World War soldiers and sacrifices. After more than 60 years, it starts to fade away from people's minds. Altough poppy flowers remain pinned everywhere, reminiscient of blood and heorism. The first time I became curious about this little red flower was 4 years ago, when I first came here as a visiting student to department of computing science. I took a computing science course taught by a Brisitsh lady on the subject "computer and society", a subject appearing strange enough to most students in that department. I took it, because I didn't identify myself as someone in that field. I wanted to feel different back then, as I believed I was quite different, different in a way that my natural talents were not revealed and fully recognized. But, come back to this British lady, whose name I can't even recall! The first time I raised a question about the little red flower I saw everywhere -- passing from one place to another -- was an evening when the class was over. She and I walked out of the building, chatting, slowly. I told her how I felt about Canada in general. I told her Canada was cold and quiet. Pace of life was so slow. She nodded her head agreeingly, with a sly smile on her face. She complained about the weather here in Alberta and told me a little about the moist climate in England. She talked about the ponds, the twittering birds and greens. She let out, if I remember correctly, a little sadness for losing and a little longing for the busyness of the city and lively interaction among people. When isolated for long, one misses the intensity and intimacy. After the friendly exchange, I asked her about the flower. She told me that the little red flower was poppy. People choose this flower as a symbol of commemoration because of a poem composed by a Frech poet. She never told me which poem and which poet. She was also surprised that we Chinese do not celebrate this day. So much for poppy flower and rememberance day.

I've been reading Gillian Rose's Love's Work these two days. I must clarify why I chose to read her last work. It all started unexpectedly. I was attracted to the ultra-leftist/ revolutionary maganize Telos quite some time ago. And I picked up the most recent two issues from the library and read a few pieces. One that struck deep was an essay on Gillian Rose. There was an even longer story behind the choice made picking this particular essay. My supervisor for my Honor's Thesis Catherine Kellogg was a radical leftist. The first time we met each other, we knew we were in the same boat. My unintentional remark on my interest in LOVE excited her. She gave me her own essay Love and Communism published in 2004. I read it in the Christmas break, it was great. Although it was not so much explanatory as descriptive. I liked it because of the notions employed in that little piece, like closedness and hole, love, melancholy, etc. This essay from Telos resonates strongly with Catherine's. Even the style was similar to hers. I decided to read it through. It turned out that I was affected by this little interesting, rich essay. If it is rare to get captured by semi-academic essays, this piece on Gilian Rose certainly falls into this category. With the the teaching from the very essay that some parts of Love's Work are borrowed from Antigone, I got it from the library.

Such a thin book. Such a tragic presence. For after this little effort of writing and pondering, Gillian Rose passed away because of cancer. It is an unusual book, not only because of its significance as the period finishing the sentence of Gillian Rose's life, but of its strange structure and the exhibition of her great vocabulary (this can only established with the awareness of the status of English as my second language). I attempted to read, and finish it the day I touched it, then I realized I was wrong. It was very difficult, literally and also systemically. I gave up, on the bus.

I picked it up from a pile of books again yesterday. I have been suffering cold and lazyness these days. All major projects self-assigned have not been finished on time. Out of desperation and anxiety, I decided to read something different, as a way to return to the normalcy and routine. It is working. A book with no content table and index magically brings me away from the dysfunction of my brain (perhaps instills a new type of dysfunction, perhaps). The subjective experience underlying shows that there are mutiple ways of reading, of experiencing thought-systems and words, feelings and rationality. I am reading again, magically.

Love's Work is very difficult. The first part starts with Rose's personal accounts of three different cities of death. From New York, to Poland, back to England. The central message she intends here is best summarized as a short quotation she is fond of: "Keep your mind in hell, and despair not". A message certainly addressed to us readers, but primarily to herself. To somone who is conscious of the ultimate coming of Judgment, religiously; of the coming of her life's end, secularly. The stories are quite interesting but all come with enlightening characterisitcs. Each story is told with plainess. Plain fondness, surprise, resentment, despise. Yet each story comes with the revealing fact that the main character (perhaps, protagonist, properly speaking) all suffers illness. Cancer, just as she does. But they live, persevere, only naturally. Some of them flow with the wind with the life-long optimism, some of them ignore the existence of cancer. Bright color and light, I can envisage. But only clounded under darkness and invetibality. Tragic indeed.

The second part, which I am reading, seems to be some sort of personal history starting with some fragments collected from memory. Family, childhood, ethnicity, culture, religion, marriage, language, etc. Using herself as a case study, Gillian Rose points out two kinds of life, stone and rose. One eternal and cold, the other this-worldly and passionate. They converge. They are the same. Everything repeats itself twice. Yes, stone and rose. Only the finite humanity comes in between. It seems Gillian Rose tries to struggle with stone and rose, with the final determination to return to the finite humanity. Therefore, she wisely puts down such words: "my protestantism against the broken promises of the mother-tongue."

I want to emphasize again the literary difficulty of this thin book. On every page there are words I don't know. With the aid of Oxford English Dictionary (online edition), I'm slowly finishing this book.

So much for today. It seems I have got a lengthy entry :)