I can see myself through the fixture of a literature,
strung out in the typography of the text. lone figure
standing suited on the floorboards, watching out of my
window, for the sign of a color. I can see myself, not
myself, captured in these words, and marbleized
as such: He stood at his window and searched
the streets for color. I can see the rotation of the sun cast
down between the pages to filter through the spaces of letters.
And I can see the night in that which this page is not, see the
night in what I have marked, and to mark myself thusly, to
impose upon this virginity, I can see in the words and my
mind will not go past them. And the magic sits inside of them.
Like totems they form off of themselves, into whatever
geometry they choose, so that parallel lines will, eventually, meet.
I will collapse myself in upon myself, and record it.
The spiral of a systemic, all that I am reduced to: a sequence
of letters. Strung along the sands of this page, found and
collected (by yours truly), this oddity here, this…a…I
pick it up and put it in my pocket, only to find an e and
an m…not too far down is an l and a p, off on its own,
y? z snared in the coral. sticking out of the water;
I steal them and I cherish them and I will form what I form:
26 modalities stretching into infinity. Through these
impurities, a sky that, must needs, never end.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Comments on the Previous Post
For those of you who may have been traumatized by the little mini-essay that preceded this post, or at least found themselves discomforted, let me explain briefly the elements that may have been off-putting and why, in fact, they are not so. There was talk from Bukowski of the good, hot beer shit, that, at first glance, is a rather disquieting and off-putting image. It is true, I can't rectify that fact. The theory of onanism in writing might also be disturbing to the uninitiated. But these are metaphors that are meant to shock, to unsettle, unbalance--so to speak--the reader. They are not meant to be taken in and of themselves, or at least in what I posted, but to be taken within context. There is an idea that what is written and what is read should be pleasing to the reader. I disagree with that notion. Whatever is written should make the reader think and sometimes that means making the reader think in areas that they would rather not.
Bukowski is notorious for his crass sense of humor, but, if one were to read him, one would realize the beautiful sensitivity that he brings to the table; the unabashed sincerity of his prose and his poetry is what make both so volatile in the world of literature. There are those who praise him and those who abhor him. I would warrant that this a sign that, above all, Bukowski has succeeded in making the reader think, think in terms perhaps uncomfortable, but to think most importantly.
The purpose of the previous post was not to shock or to dally in off-color humor, but to investigate, with its own humor, the world of literary analysis. The essay itself, being self-negating, is a reflection or an embodiment of its own subject. It's purpose was to tackle the futility of analysis and the modes of operation for the self-negating writer.
My apologies to those who may have taken offence. The only advice that I can offer is to reread and search for the underlying meaning, looking beyond the initial words and understanding the way they play. I believe we are prisoners to our own fears and discomforts. The world awaits to be cracked open at any time; it can be a wonderful place, a magical place, but it requires a panoramic mind to see it.
Bukowski is notorious for his crass sense of humor, but, if one were to read him, one would realize the beautiful sensitivity that he brings to the table; the unabashed sincerity of his prose and his poetry is what make both so volatile in the world of literature. There are those who praise him and those who abhor him. I would warrant that this a sign that, above all, Bukowski has succeeded in making the reader think, think in terms perhaps uncomfortable, but to think most importantly.
The purpose of the previous post was not to shock or to dally in off-color humor, but to investigate, with its own humor, the world of literary analysis. The essay itself, being self-negating, is a reflection or an embodiment of its own subject. It's purpose was to tackle the futility of analysis and the modes of operation for the self-negating writer.
My apologies to those who may have taken offence. The only advice that I can offer is to reread and search for the underlying meaning, looking beyond the initial words and understanding the way they play. I believe we are prisoners to our own fears and discomforts. The world awaits to be cracked open at any time; it can be a wonderful place, a magical place, but it requires a panoramic mind to see it.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Bukowski and the Self-Negating Writer
"Reading the poets has been the dullest of things...even reading the great novelists of the past, I said 'Tolstoy is supposed to be special?' I go to bed. I read War and Peace. I read it. I read it. I say 'Where's the specialness in War and Peace?' I really tried to understand. I mean, and then many of the great poets of the past...I've read their stuff; I've read it. All I get is a goddamn headache and boredom. I really feel sickness in the pit of my stomach. I say 'There's some trick going on here. This is not true. This is not real. It's not good.' You see poetry itself contains as much energy as a Hollywood industry, as much industry as a stage play on Broadway. All it needs is practitioners who are alive to bring it alive. Poetry has always been said to be a private, hidden art, not appreciated. The reason it's not appreciated is because it hasn't shown any guts. It hasn't shown any dance. Hasn't shown any moxie. Poetry is generally very dull. Very pretensive. Uh...those who say the poet is a very private and precious person I don't agree with. Generally he's just a dumb, fiddling asshole writing insecure lines that don't come through, believing he's immortal, waiting for his immortality which never arrive because the poor fucker just can't write. Most co...poets, coets, hoets, carrots can't even write a simple line. Like: the dog walked down the street. Nothing should be ever be done that should be done. It has to come out like a good hot beer shit. A good hot beer shit is glorious...man. You get up. You turn around. And you look at it. And you're proud. The fumes...the stink of the turds. You look at the--you say, 'God I did it. I'm good.' You know...and then you flush it away and there's a sense of sadness. When just the water's there. It's like writing a good poem, you just do it. You...you...it's a beer shit. Nothing to analyze. There's nothing to say...it's just done. Got it?"
--Charles Bukowski as interviewed in Poetry and Motion
"Not only does the writer respond to his muse's quasi-sexual excitation with an outpouring of the aesthetic energy Hopkins called 'the fine delight that fathers thought'--a delight poured seminally from pen to page--but as the author of an enduring text the writer engages the attention of the future in exactly the same way that a king (or father) "own" the homage of the present. No sword-wielding general could rule so long or possess so vast a kingdom. Finally, that such a notion of 'ownership' or possession is embedded in the metaphor of paternity leads to yet another implication of this complex metaphor. For if the author/father is owner of his text and of his reader's attention, he is also, of course, owner/possessor of the subjects of his text, that is to say those figures, scenes, and events--those brain children--he has both incarnated in black and white and 'bound' in cloth or leather. Thus, because he is an author, a 'man of letters' is simultaneously, like his divine counterpart, a father, a master or ruler, and an owner: the spiritual type of a patriarch, as we understand that term in Western society."
--The Madwoman in the Attic: The Woman Writer and the Ninteenth-Century Literary Imagination, Second Edition, Sandra M. Gilbert and Susan Gubar, Yale Nota Bene
Is as, Gilbert and Gubar suggest, writing simply, to quote John Irwin, "'an autoerotic act...a kind of creative onanism in which through the use of the phallic pen on the 'pure space' of the virgin page...the self is continually spent and wasted....'" (Gilbert and Gubar). Or is it something more? Has the act of writing been grafted with a patriarchal fantasy of sexual tension/release, of ownership, of domination? Well this, certainly, cannot be denied. But can we, on certain grounds, refute the idea that this is all that writing is? A fantastical onanism, an engendering of oneself? Can the writer be captive to his/her own work? Can that work, as many have said, "get away from" him or her? Or perhaps, to escape such rampant speculation, can we say that the writer must first submit to his/her work before he/she can possess it? It seems to me that the majority of objections grounded in this principle view authorship as existing within a forward-moving trajectory, that is, as possessing or being possessed by a certain telos in which the author has something to "say."
But what of the self-negating writer? What of the negative writer as embodied by Bukowski? Can he be warranted to have something to "say?" Much like the preface ("When the double necessity, both internal and external, will have been fulfilled, the preface, which will in a sense have introduced it as one makes an introduction to the (true) beginning (of the truth), will no doubt have been raised to the status of philosophy, will have been internalized and sublated into it. It will also, simultaneously, have fallen away of its own accord and been left 'in its appropriate place in ordinary conversation.' A double topography, a double face, an overwritten erasure. What is the status of a text when it itself carries itself away and marks itself down? Is it a dialectical contradiction? A negation of negation? A labor of the negative and a process of the works in the service of meaning? Of the being-abreast-of-itself of the concept?" Jacques Derrida, Dissemination, 1981, The University of Chicago Press, Chicago), much like the preface, the self-negating writer is left in an existential quandary.
When I say a self-negating writer, I do not mean a writer who attempts to erase all traces of him or herself from the product. I use Derrida's question of the preface as analogous to what I call the presupposed profundity of authorship. It is not that the self-negating writer denies his/her own work, it is that he/she denies the profundity, that is, the credit of having written. Bukowski may appear pretentious in saying "Tolstoy is supposed to be special?" Even more so by equating writing with a beer shit. Examine closer however, and you will see the necessary steps of self-negation. The refusal of pretension, the refusal even of the interview, the interview of pretension, that is that he, Bukowski should even be interviewed, that is a necessary refusal for the self-negating writer. But the self-negating writer consents to being interviewed to say that writing has become a farce, perhaps always was a farce, but fiction is for the most part a dry and boring affair.
As Tim O'Brien says in his essay "Telling Tales" for Atlantic Fiction 2009:
"Let's say, for example, that a story is set in Nigeria. No matter how much detail is offered to help me see and smell and hear Nigeria, if the story itself does not surprise and delight and enchant me in some way, all of that detail is mere information, which better belongs in a travelogue or an encyclopedia entry. I might be wholly convinced of the setting, yet wholly sedated by the story. Or, said a different way: the research might be a resounding success but the drama a dismal failure. The failure, almost always, is one of imagination [it has no "moxie"]. In fiction workshops, we tend to focus on matters of verisimilitude largely because such issues are so much easier to talk about than the failure of imagination. And for the writer, of course, beefing up a character's physical description is easier than envisioning a sequence of compelling and meaningful events in which that character is engaged. So we nibble at the margins, shying away from the central difficulty."
The question of "good" writing must never boil down to an equation, a sequence of weights, a balance. It must be a question of an opacity, a beyond experience, sans affirmation. That which cannot be spoken. And like the proper zen master, Bukowski erases the trace of exposition (that is, of pretension or knowledge as to the success of writing) by likening it to a beer shit. A necessary act is much like the necessary being of St. Anselm's ontological proof. In the strictest sense, can writing have any affirmation but itself? Can it mean anything other than itself? If we question in this way, we must discard the theory of onanism on the grounds that we shift God from author to process. We shift the unknowable, the set of all sets, to writing itself. We arrive at a paradox.
As Derrida properly pointed out in the majority of his works (I here reference Writing and Differance in particular), if writing is supposed to take on the traditional role of representing speech, then it will always be imperfect as a representation. If writing finds its validity, its purpose, its affirmation in speech, which, in turn finds its purpose in intention (intention to communicate), then it will remain as the shadow of speech. But we must question this heirarchy. We must question the assumption that writing and speech have a particular telos. For example, if we are to communicate anything it must be assumed a priori that we, the communicators are privy to knowledge unbeknownst to whomever we are communicating with. If that knowledge were self-evident, then the need to communicate would be rendered void.
Following this line of thought, we reach an obstacle. If the writer is attempting to communicate something unbeknownst to others, then the leap from personal to universal becomes contradictory. If we are to take the purpose of the author as revealing a truth, revealing a beauty, revealing an irony, etc. then we must understand it as a revelation, material, or more specifically, truth that was already there. That, due to whatever circumstance, though existent, required elucidation. This then would mean that whatever is being communicated was not self-evident. But how so? The idea pushes the capacities of a writer to a higher state, the capacities of a writer to the highest state, so to speak. To reveal a truth through observation that other human beings cannot, for whatever reason, see. The writer becomes a seer. And we must push the act of writing back a step to a form of primitive mysticism.
The self-negating writer denies primitive mysticism, denies that he/she is even saying anything. Instead, they retract what has been posited. They deny the trend from personal to universal, regress to writing as the irreducible, to a beer shit, to a satisfaction, to a necessity. They reduce it to a paradox. If writing is to be viewed as an act of creation, as the Overflowing, the Abundance, it must also (according to a communicative paradigm), be viewed as a relinquishing, a dispersal, a "letting go" from Self. And if it is a relinquishing of what must be said, communicated, if it is the recording of a knowledge already possessed, then it cannot be an act of creation. It cannot be an act of God (an act of creation must entail the production of from nothing; there is a corollary metaphor here that follows: the blank page serves as Nothing, from which the writer conjures word, Something). And if that knowledge is not, as may be supposed, anything special, if it is, in fact, something self-evident, then it is not being communicated, it is being reiterated. We thus reduce writing to a simple tautology.
Bukowski then must deny the act of writing or what has been written as being profound, as being "above," as being special. He must do so in order to escape the tautological trap, in order to escape the paradox of creation/sublimation. The question then of what writing is takes a backseat to the question of the purpose, the validation of the act. What good is writing to the self-negating writer? The self-negating writer most likely would respond that there is nothing good about it. It is necessary. It validates itself. A true writer writes for him/herself.
The beer shit is the "gateless gate," the unknowable, the self-affirming, the self-validating. Or maybe...it's just a beer shit.
--Charles Bukowski as interviewed in Poetry and Motion
"Not only does the writer respond to his muse's quasi-sexual excitation with an outpouring of the aesthetic energy Hopkins called 'the fine delight that fathers thought'--a delight poured seminally from pen to page--but as the author of an enduring text the writer engages the attention of the future in exactly the same way that a king (or father) "own" the homage of the present. No sword-wielding general could rule so long or possess so vast a kingdom. Finally, that such a notion of 'ownership' or possession is embedded in the metaphor of paternity leads to yet another implication of this complex metaphor. For if the author/father is owner of his text and of his reader's attention, he is also, of course, owner/possessor of the subjects of his text, that is to say those figures, scenes, and events--those brain children--he has both incarnated in black and white and 'bound' in cloth or leather. Thus, because he is an author, a 'man of letters' is simultaneously, like his divine counterpart, a father, a master or ruler, and an owner: the spiritual type of a patriarch, as we understand that term in Western society."
--The Madwoman in the Attic: The Woman Writer and the Ninteenth-Century Literary Imagination, Second Edition, Sandra M. Gilbert and Susan Gubar, Yale Nota Bene
Is as, Gilbert and Gubar suggest, writing simply, to quote John Irwin, "'an autoerotic act...a kind of creative onanism in which through the use of the phallic pen on the 'pure space' of the virgin page...the self is continually spent and wasted....'" (Gilbert and Gubar). Or is it something more? Has the act of writing been grafted with a patriarchal fantasy of sexual tension/release, of ownership, of domination? Well this, certainly, cannot be denied. But can we, on certain grounds, refute the idea that this is all that writing is? A fantastical onanism, an engendering of oneself? Can the writer be captive to his/her own work? Can that work, as many have said, "get away from" him or her? Or perhaps, to escape such rampant speculation, can we say that the writer must first submit to his/her work before he/she can possess it? It seems to me that the majority of objections grounded in this principle view authorship as existing within a forward-moving trajectory, that is, as possessing or being possessed by a certain telos in which the author has something to "say."
But what of the self-negating writer? What of the negative writer as embodied by Bukowski? Can he be warranted to have something to "say?" Much like the preface ("When the double necessity, both internal and external, will have been fulfilled, the preface, which will in a sense have introduced it as one makes an introduction to the (true) beginning (of the truth), will no doubt have been raised to the status of philosophy, will have been internalized and sublated into it. It will also, simultaneously, have fallen away of its own accord and been left 'in its appropriate place in ordinary conversation.' A double topography, a double face, an overwritten erasure. What is the status of a text when it itself carries itself away and marks itself down? Is it a dialectical contradiction? A negation of negation? A labor of the negative and a process of the works in the service of meaning? Of the being-abreast-of-itself of the concept?" Jacques Derrida, Dissemination, 1981, The University of Chicago Press, Chicago), much like the preface, the self-negating writer is left in an existential quandary.
When I say a self-negating writer, I do not mean a writer who attempts to erase all traces of him or herself from the product. I use Derrida's question of the preface as analogous to what I call the presupposed profundity of authorship. It is not that the self-negating writer denies his/her own work, it is that he/she denies the profundity, that is, the credit of having written. Bukowski may appear pretentious in saying "Tolstoy is supposed to be special?" Even more so by equating writing with a beer shit. Examine closer however, and you will see the necessary steps of self-negation. The refusal of pretension, the refusal even of the interview, the interview of pretension, that is that he, Bukowski should even be interviewed, that is a necessary refusal for the self-negating writer. But the self-negating writer consents to being interviewed to say that writing has become a farce, perhaps always was a farce, but fiction is for the most part a dry and boring affair.
As Tim O'Brien says in his essay "Telling Tales" for Atlantic Fiction 2009:
"Let's say, for example, that a story is set in Nigeria. No matter how much detail is offered to help me see and smell and hear Nigeria, if the story itself does not surprise and delight and enchant me in some way, all of that detail is mere information, which better belongs in a travelogue or an encyclopedia entry. I might be wholly convinced of the setting, yet wholly sedated by the story. Or, said a different way: the research might be a resounding success but the drama a dismal failure. The failure, almost always, is one of imagination [it has no "moxie"]. In fiction workshops, we tend to focus on matters of verisimilitude largely because such issues are so much easier to talk about than the failure of imagination. And for the writer, of course, beefing up a character's physical description is easier than envisioning a sequence of compelling and meaningful events in which that character is engaged. So we nibble at the margins, shying away from the central difficulty."
The question of "good" writing must never boil down to an equation, a sequence of weights, a balance. It must be a question of an opacity, a beyond experience, sans affirmation. That which cannot be spoken. And like the proper zen master, Bukowski erases the trace of exposition (that is, of pretension or knowledge as to the success of writing) by likening it to a beer shit. A necessary act is much like the necessary being of St. Anselm's ontological proof. In the strictest sense, can writing have any affirmation but itself? Can it mean anything other than itself? If we question in this way, we must discard the theory of onanism on the grounds that we shift God from author to process. We shift the unknowable, the set of all sets, to writing itself. We arrive at a paradox.
As Derrida properly pointed out in the majority of his works (I here reference Writing and Differance in particular), if writing is supposed to take on the traditional role of representing speech, then it will always be imperfect as a representation. If writing finds its validity, its purpose, its affirmation in speech, which, in turn finds its purpose in intention (intention to communicate), then it will remain as the shadow of speech. But we must question this heirarchy. We must question the assumption that writing and speech have a particular telos. For example, if we are to communicate anything it must be assumed a priori that we, the communicators are privy to knowledge unbeknownst to whomever we are communicating with. If that knowledge were self-evident, then the need to communicate would be rendered void.
Following this line of thought, we reach an obstacle. If the writer is attempting to communicate something unbeknownst to others, then the leap from personal to universal becomes contradictory. If we are to take the purpose of the author as revealing a truth, revealing a beauty, revealing an irony, etc. then we must understand it as a revelation, material, or more specifically, truth that was already there. That, due to whatever circumstance, though existent, required elucidation. This then would mean that whatever is being communicated was not self-evident. But how so? The idea pushes the capacities of a writer to a higher state, the capacities of a writer to the highest state, so to speak. To reveal a truth through observation that other human beings cannot, for whatever reason, see. The writer becomes a seer. And we must push the act of writing back a step to a form of primitive mysticism.
The self-negating writer denies primitive mysticism, denies that he/she is even saying anything. Instead, they retract what has been posited. They deny the trend from personal to universal, regress to writing as the irreducible, to a beer shit, to a satisfaction, to a necessity. They reduce it to a paradox. If writing is to be viewed as an act of creation, as the Overflowing, the Abundance, it must also (according to a communicative paradigm), be viewed as a relinquishing, a dispersal, a "letting go" from Self. And if it is a relinquishing of what must be said, communicated, if it is the recording of a knowledge already possessed, then it cannot be an act of creation. It cannot be an act of God (an act of creation must entail the production of from nothing; there is a corollary metaphor here that follows: the blank page serves as Nothing, from which the writer conjures word, Something). And if that knowledge is not, as may be supposed, anything special, if it is, in fact, something self-evident, then it is not being communicated, it is being reiterated. We thus reduce writing to a simple tautology.
Bukowski then must deny the act of writing or what has been written as being profound, as being "above," as being special. He must do so in order to escape the tautological trap, in order to escape the paradox of creation/sublimation. The question then of what writing is takes a backseat to the question of the purpose, the validation of the act. What good is writing to the self-negating writer? The self-negating writer most likely would respond that there is nothing good about it. It is necessary. It validates itself. A true writer writes for him/herself.
The beer shit is the "gateless gate," the unknowable, the self-affirming, the self-validating. Or maybe...it's just a beer shit.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Singapore: A Footnote
Something, folks, that I forgot to mention about Singapore. I will keep it brief. While there, I went to the "Night Safari." This means, that we rode around in a tram to watch animals sleeping, while being preached at about animal preservation. I find it increasingly bizarre that we are the only animals that capture other animals to look at for entertainment. No other animal does this. Not so long ago, we were living alongside, running away from these creatures. Now we are displacing them, killing them or capturing them to look at. The oddities of the human race abound.
As for my future plans. This Monday, hopefully, tentatively, I should be going to Melacca. You can look it up if you'd like. I might post a link later for the lazier of you.
Take care,
Trey
As for my future plans. This Monday, hopefully, tentatively, I should be going to Melacca. You can look it up if you'd like. I might post a link later for the lazier of you.
Take care,
Trey
Friday, June 12, 2009
Singapore: O.C.D. Paradise
I know it's been a while since I've posted. Please excuse the delay. But as it stands, I have made it to Singapore and am enjoying the hot, muggy weather as much as I did in Malaysia. For those of you who want to know what Singapore is like, I will tell you. The best metaphor I can muster at the moment is that Singapore is the Malaysian Canada...or that is, Singapore is the Malaysian equivalent of Canada. Or, if you will, Singapore is to Malaysia as Canada is to the United States.
I digress.
If any of you have been to Montreal or Toronto or any Canadian metropolitan area or, really, just Canada in general, you will have realized what I realized: it was comfortable, but unsettling--that is, it was too clean. It was as if I had entered the Twilight Zone and New York had become orderly. Canada is a cleaner U.S., and, following the analogy, Singapore is a cleaner Malaysia. Now many of you may be wondering: what is the problem with that? My answer: it has its consequences. This is how Singapore presents itself:
This is Singapore in reality from the 21st floor of an HDB (the general hive conditions of the Singaporean involve the HDB: vertical, impersonal and rather unfortunate cramped apartment complexes that are, for all intents and purposes, exactly the same):
And...Lego Land:
Again, Singapore:
Lego Land:
And just for grins, Toronto:
Everything looks better at night: the stars, the moon, the hookers, and especially, especially the cities when viewed from afar across an expanse of reflective, shimmering water.
So now that we have covered the Singaporean aesthetic, we may move on to the question, "What is there to do in Singapore?" More appropriately, however, might be the question, "What is there to not do in Singapore?" Wherever one may travel in this city/country, one will see signs most often prohibiting things. No jaywalking, no rollerblading, no littering, no smoking, no cycling, etc. This is all well and good one might say. We have the same thing in the States. But you see, in the States, though we have these signs, people still jaywalk, rollerblade, litter, smoke and cycle, etc. wherever they are not supposed to, whenever they damn well please. Not so here. If you are caught littering, you are fined 300 Sin (the name of their currency ironically) which is approximately 210 USD. Littering does not only include cups, cans, bags, etc., it also includes cigarettes. What is a smoker to do in Singapore? Stomp out the butt and save it until a proper receptacle is made available.
But enough with the negative. Singapore did not always used to be like this, and remnants of the old, wild wild Sing can still be seen in places like India Town. Since Singapore is so small, the government is able to control the population the way it does. And one must give them credit for this. As much as I hate totalitarianism, Singapore does a good job of concealing it with a generally consumerist, artificial facade. What I can say most definitely is that the people are friendly and the environment feels to be probably the safest I've ever been in. This is saying something since Singapore the country is essentially Singapore the city, and a rather large one at that. This is what Singapore is: it is nice, it is comfortable, it is inviting. True, things are regulated rather closely (parking lots are monitored electronically so that when you enter one you can see how many spots are available for you), but it has its merits. I don't have to really worry about getting robbed, beaten, stabbed. For the most part, everyone is courteous and orderly. True, disorderly conduct does exist; crime does exist. But at a smaller scale, and perhaps, more importantly, the perception of crime is very comfortably low. And, it really is that clean. You could probably eat off the ground if you wanted to...which brings me to my next point.
The food is excellent here. And I'm not just talking about frog legs, cereal squid and pork ribs; I'm talking about a variety of cuisines. One may be surprised to eat a sizzling, steak fajita, chips and spicy salsa on the quay...or a perfectly caramelized creme brulee in "Holland Village." Obviously, being halfway across the world, one wouldn't expect French, nor especially, Mexican food to be of any great quality...but to my surprise, they were both highly desirable. And, since we're discussing the culinary aspects of Singapore, it is, to my knowledge, the sole producer and exporter of a very fine beer called Tiger. One can find it just about anywhere in Southeast Asia.
So what is Singapore? Obviously no one can really answer that question. Singaporean identity must be rather difficult to define. The government splits its population into roughly four ethnic categories: Malaysian (Singapore used to belong to Malaysia), Chinese, Indian and Eurasian. The Singaporean language is, quite frankly, either Chinese or English or, rather, what they call here "Singlish." In Malaysia, they call their dialect "Manglish." Singlish is similar to Manglish in that it uses similar terms such as "la" and "wa lau." But Singaporeans truly have formed a unique and nationalizing way of rendering the English language incomprehensible. Singapore is, however, a predominantly Chinese country, populated by Great Britain, and at one time subsumed by Malaysia.
One must then realize the incredible feat required in taking an island virtually no one wanted, left by colonial powers as a by-product and peopled by relatively ignorant Chinese laborers, and turning it into a legitimate global player (its currency is about 2:1 in comparison to the U.S. dollar). It is its own country, has its own military (mandatory service for all young male citizens) and has cleaned up its act to become really one of a kind anywhere in Asia: the perfect metropolitan country. It caters to the exoticism of "The East" while maintaining a completely European infrastructure. I am surprised to see on the sides of buses not just advertisements for Dior, but large banners that read "Fostering a nation of readers," with engrossed students silhouetted against the background. What country has ever made reading a national pride? And the results are indeed present. The National University of Singapore is ranked 30th in the world.
But that is just the thing. For someone going East, looking for the "real," well you'll find it here. But Singapore is becoming so sanitized that is difficult to know what exactly that is. Technically everything is "real" in a cultural sense. But since Singapore is commercializing so rapidly and those who inhabit this island were displaced to begin with, what can one legitimately say about Singaporean culture other than it's clean, it's well-ordered, strict and commercial? It is really the national capitalist's dream. Of course there is poverty, underlying cultural stresses, etc. but these are sidelined. The country doesn't show you that, of course. One cannot stage a protest of more than five people without government approval. In Singapore, one has to bid for the right to drive.
It's a mixed bag. I'll post more later.
I digress.
If any of you have been to Montreal or Toronto or any Canadian metropolitan area or, really, just Canada in general, you will have realized what I realized: it was comfortable, but unsettling--that is, it was too clean. It was as if I had entered the Twilight Zone and New York had become orderly. Canada is a cleaner U.S., and, following the analogy, Singapore is a cleaner Malaysia. Now many of you may be wondering: what is the problem with that? My answer: it has its consequences. This is how Singapore presents itself:
This is Singapore in reality from the 21st floor of an HDB (the general hive conditions of the Singaporean involve the HDB: vertical, impersonal and rather unfortunate cramped apartment complexes that are, for all intents and purposes, exactly the same):
And...Lego Land:
Again, Singapore:
Lego Land:
And just for grins, Toronto:
Everything looks better at night: the stars, the moon, the hookers, and especially, especially the cities when viewed from afar across an expanse of reflective, shimmering water.
So now that we have covered the Singaporean aesthetic, we may move on to the question, "What is there to do in Singapore?" More appropriately, however, might be the question, "What is there to not do in Singapore?" Wherever one may travel in this city/country, one will see signs most often prohibiting things. No jaywalking, no rollerblading, no littering, no smoking, no cycling, etc. This is all well and good one might say. We have the same thing in the States. But you see, in the States, though we have these signs, people still jaywalk, rollerblade, litter, smoke and cycle, etc. wherever they are not supposed to, whenever they damn well please. Not so here. If you are caught littering, you are fined 300 Sin (the name of their currency ironically) which is approximately 210 USD. Littering does not only include cups, cans, bags, etc., it also includes cigarettes. What is a smoker to do in Singapore? Stomp out the butt and save it until a proper receptacle is made available.
But enough with the negative. Singapore did not always used to be like this, and remnants of the old, wild wild Sing can still be seen in places like India Town. Since Singapore is so small, the government is able to control the population the way it does. And one must give them credit for this. As much as I hate totalitarianism, Singapore does a good job of concealing it with a generally consumerist, artificial facade. What I can say most definitely is that the people are friendly and the environment feels to be probably the safest I've ever been in. This is saying something since Singapore the country is essentially Singapore the city, and a rather large one at that. This is what Singapore is: it is nice, it is comfortable, it is inviting. True, things are regulated rather closely (parking lots are monitored electronically so that when you enter one you can see how many spots are available for you), but it has its merits. I don't have to really worry about getting robbed, beaten, stabbed. For the most part, everyone is courteous and orderly. True, disorderly conduct does exist; crime does exist. But at a smaller scale, and perhaps, more importantly, the perception of crime is very comfortably low. And, it really is that clean. You could probably eat off the ground if you wanted to...which brings me to my next point.
The food is excellent here. And I'm not just talking about frog legs, cereal squid and pork ribs; I'm talking about a variety of cuisines. One may be surprised to eat a sizzling, steak fajita, chips and spicy salsa on the quay...or a perfectly caramelized creme brulee in "Holland Village." Obviously, being halfway across the world, one wouldn't expect French, nor especially, Mexican food to be of any great quality...but to my surprise, they were both highly desirable. And, since we're discussing the culinary aspects of Singapore, it is, to my knowledge, the sole producer and exporter of a very fine beer called Tiger. One can find it just about anywhere in Southeast Asia.
So what is Singapore? Obviously no one can really answer that question. Singaporean identity must be rather difficult to define. The government splits its population into roughly four ethnic categories: Malaysian (Singapore used to belong to Malaysia), Chinese, Indian and Eurasian. The Singaporean language is, quite frankly, either Chinese or English or, rather, what they call here "Singlish." In Malaysia, they call their dialect "Manglish." Singlish is similar to Manglish in that it uses similar terms such as "la" and "wa lau." But Singaporeans truly have formed a unique and nationalizing way of rendering the English language incomprehensible. Singapore is, however, a predominantly Chinese country, populated by Great Britain, and at one time subsumed by Malaysia.
One must then realize the incredible feat required in taking an island virtually no one wanted, left by colonial powers as a by-product and peopled by relatively ignorant Chinese laborers, and turning it into a legitimate global player (its currency is about 2:1 in comparison to the U.S. dollar). It is its own country, has its own military (mandatory service for all young male citizens) and has cleaned up its act to become really one of a kind anywhere in Asia: the perfect metropolitan country. It caters to the exoticism of "The East" while maintaining a completely European infrastructure. I am surprised to see on the sides of buses not just advertisements for Dior, but large banners that read "Fostering a nation of readers," with engrossed students silhouetted against the background. What country has ever made reading a national pride? And the results are indeed present. The National University of Singapore is ranked 30th in the world.
But that is just the thing. For someone going East, looking for the "real," well you'll find it here. But Singapore is becoming so sanitized that is difficult to know what exactly that is. Technically everything is "real" in a cultural sense. But since Singapore is commercializing so rapidly and those who inhabit this island were displaced to begin with, what can one legitimately say about Singaporean culture other than it's clean, it's well-ordered, strict and commercial? It is really the national capitalist's dream. Of course there is poverty, underlying cultural stresses, etc. but these are sidelined. The country doesn't show you that, of course. One cannot stage a protest of more than five people without government approval. In Singapore, one has to bid for the right to drive.
It's a mixed bag. I'll post more later.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
A Room With a View
As promised, I am delivering some pictures for those who are interested. The picture you see on the top left there is a view from my room. I had described it in passing as a "chateau." This perhaps was a bit misleading. It still is a chateau (three stories with an elevator--her father was afraid he would not be mobile in his waning years), but it is not, like one may imagine, perched on a grassy knoll with embankments on each side. Rather, it is clustered with many of the same type houses. The gated community is an interesting one. As I trolled the streets last night, I met with an older couple selling fruit and vegetables to the inhabitants of Damansara Heights from their truck. Li and Wohan (pronounced "lie" and "wohahn" respectively) come every Tuesday and Saturday to deliver produce to paying customers. One might be surprised to find many white neighbors here, ex-pats and the like, who stroll about, taking their children to the public pool and playground, chatting in their primrose front yards, etc. A security guard makes rounds regularly on a bike. Benches dot the streets at regular intervals for weary walkers or leisure seekers. It is still abominably hot however.
Interestingly, each house or "unit" as they like to call them in anthropology, has an automatic door for the cars and a manual one (that can only be unlocked from inside) for entry into the front yard. Thus, unlike gated communities even in the States, homes and yards are walled in twice over, leaving the wanderer "walled off" or shut out from within.
I don't think that this is really for security purposes, and I'll tell you why. Firstly, it's redundant. The community is already gated. The probabilities of another, highly wealthy homeowner in Damansara Heights stealing off with your television and jade collection under the cover of darkness is relatively nil. Secondly, the walls are not really designed for that sort of protection, per se. They are easily scalable and the door lock is a thin cylinder that hinges into a slot. Thirdly, a security guard patrols regularly on his bicycle, neighbors are almost always walking around or driving by. I simply don't see much of a reason for it.
This leads me to believe that there is a different underlying reason for such "double-walling." I believe it is largely psychological. In this manner, the homeowner may not only exclude the urban stranger (via the initial gate, with rottweilers and guards), but may also exclude, if he/she so chooses, other neighbors, so that there is a concentric circle of liminal delineation. One may even take this further to the privacy allowed by rooms. Thus the double-walling is a means of negotiating space within close confines. Land is a very valuable resource, yards small. Therefore that which is "mine" must be guarded psychologically from that which is "theirs." To put it more succinctly: those who can afford to wall themselves in close quarters do so for the comfort of privacy and voluntary exclusion/inclusion. At least this is what I think, and I haven't found any information suggesting the contrary.
Since Malaysia is still developing, it is interesting to leave a gated community to go, for example, grocery shopping. I have only been to small markets and the like. "Mini marts" seem to be for expedient snacks, etc. while the larger establishments are like the grocery stores we have in the States on a much smaller scale. Expensive furniture stores or restaurants, still sit alongside poor housing. As KL central is being revitalized, it is pushing out, slowly but surely, into the surrounding neighborhoods. As I said before, old infrastructure is being razed for new developments such as e
xpensive condominiums and night clubs. I've even passed a Hindu temple still standing in front of a large, new shopping mall. Even so, the traditional Malaysian establishments (the small eateries that dot the city) are not absent. Today, for the first time, I had Nasi Lamak (the "National Treasure"). It is comprised of a ball of rice (which one eats with a spoon), a curry chili sauce on the side, nuts and fried fish strips (is the only way I can explain them) and a boiled egg, all served on a banana leaf. You can also order chicken or other such delectable treats with your meal. It is traditionally a breakfast food, so we had it for breakfast. I must say, it was quite good. To drink I had a little drink that can only be described as an iced, sweet lime concoction. Both my and Villie's meal, with chicken and drinks included, came to about 10 Ringgit (which, according to the current exchange rate, is around 3 USD). Not a bad deal, I'd say.DVD's are cheap...when they're pirated. I am contemplating the box set of The Wire for about 400 Ringgit...which is essentially $115. If anyone knows how expensive and scarce even Season 1 of The Wire is, then you'd know how amazing the price is. Of course, you do have to sit through their little movie store promo...but that's the price you pay...for a lower price. Another thing of note: parking here is not free. Now what do I mean by that? I mean that almost all of the parking lots I have been to are controlled by automatic or manual tolls and/or parking meter stations. When you enter a lot of any kind you have to get a ticket. Depending on the lot, you either pay the ticket up front and stick it in your car, or, more often I've seen the ticket paid at the end of the stay. Therefore, if you don't have the money, you're stuck in the parking lot. I believe this is tax money (which almost every extraneous cost is here--"service tax" also goes to the government), but it's an interesting concept. In mall parking lots there is even a time limit to escape after paying for the ticket. Since those meters charge exponentially for time used, then to avoid people clocking in for an hour, paying for the ticket and staying for another five, there is a time limit from the point that you pay for your ticket to the point you exit the parking lot. Mall parking lots are generally confusing here--arrows go everywhere, random cones stand in the way, exit signs are posted at every corner pointing up and down. It's beyond me how anyone makes it out in 20 minutes, much less 10.
But people navigate. Unspoken rule of the road: the pedestrian does not have the right of way. If you come here and are planning to cross the road, STOP, and look both ways with cupped ears. It isn't like Italy where one really must cross in front of traffic and mingle with the motorcycles and tour buses careening inches away from your nose. Here, either the car won't stop (unlikely) or it will (much more likely) and someone will be angry (certain).
Well that's all for now folks. I promise I'll post again soon. I think the crystal clear swimming pool is calling my name at the moment.
P.S. If it's this beautiful in the city, then I am anxious to see the country.
Yours,
Trey
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Kuala lumpur
My apologies to all of you who have been trying to contact me via internet. Anyway, not much has happened of note. I have been eating mainly "Western" food and gradually edging in to more Asian delicacies. Needless to say, Tony Roma's doesn't really lend itself to the exotic Malaysian flair. I did feel at home though when I had a "Texan" burger at Chili's (a cheeseburger with "jalapeno sauce" and "tortilla strips"...not recommended.) Last night I had some pretty fantastic Thai food. I ambled to the bathroom soon afterward.
So far, I have been in a pretty commercialized part of K.L. I asked some of Villie's friends if there were any locations or sights that represented Malaysian "culture" (whatever that means), and they told me that really it was their food. A certain dish I have yet to try is their "national treasure" called Nasi Lamak. I don't know what's in it yet...I probably never will.
It is hot, but really not any hotter than Texas. It's the humidity that kills you. Even though I am in a commercialized section of K.L. (I have been in many "megamalls," i.e. seven-floor consumerist monstrosities--paeans to the inevitable spread of capitalism), I have noticed alongside centers of affluence, abject poverty. Flanking a road to the center of the city for example, sit rows of abandoned and degenerate housing complexes. Across from four and five-star hotels are colorful tenement buildings, a small park for the children to play in next to an intersection. A dirty river cuts through the scene. Nestled amidst sprawling shopping centers and five-story car parks are dilapidated homes, the stubborn hold-outs of a rampant revitalization campaign.
Just as with many, if not most, of the post-industrial cities of the U.S., Kuala Lumpur is a classic case of "urban revitalization." Here's how it works in a nutshell: the city or federal government buys decaying city infrastructure from the urban poor, then offers the land at a discounted price to urban developers. The urban developers usually raze the infrastructure (i.e. poor housing) in order to erect new, commercial enterprises: shops, services, etc. for the more wealthy city-goers. The poor are displaced, and usually, depending on government policy, are provided money and housing in return for relinquishing their property.
What usually happens? The poor are displaced, not offered comparable housing or payment, pushed to the outside of the city, and the inner city is reconstructed to fit the consumerist dictates of a post-industrial society. K.L. has an added interest in doing this since the inner city is a prime tourist location (the Petronas Towers, etc.)
Interestingly, the rich/poor dichotomy is reflected even in the "megamalls," albeit on a smaller scale. One can easily cross from a Chanel retailer to "Jusco," a poor department store. The lower one goes in Jusco, it appears, the poorer the clientele.
That being said, K.L. is, not surprisingly, rather diverse. Chinese Malaysians walk alongside, Indian Malaysians, walk alongside Malaysian Malaysians, etc., etc. English is spoken predominantly here, or what can be construed as English. I have found myself tempted, many a time, to gesticulate wildly and enunciate as I order something like "creme brulee" (which came back to me as a blueberry crumble.)
My knowledge of Malay is poor. I was corrected on how to say "hello" at a gas station. But there is no such thing as "hello" in Malay. Really there are "good morning," "good afternoon," "good evening" and "good night." I said "good afternoon" and this woman deemed it to be "evening." Difference of opinion I'd argue. On the whole, people are very nice or rather rude. Some will be accommodating, others will act as though you are requesting a Herculean effort for them to turn around and get you a bottle of water. Very well. Small talk is kept to a minimum, and so it is sometimes difficult NOT to be the obnoxious American. I have found that even if they can't understand what you're saying, as long as you smile you have a good chance of getting what you need.
On the whole, I really like it here, and it is rather beautiful, even the poorer bits (but then, as an anthropologist, of course I would find those equally if not more beautiful). I will post more as I push out of the general radius and explore both the overlaying and underlying composition of Malaysia. Check back soon.
Trey
So far, I have been in a pretty commercialized part of K.L. I asked some of Villie's friends if there were any locations or sights that represented Malaysian "culture" (whatever that means), and they told me that really it was their food. A certain dish I have yet to try is their "national treasure" called Nasi Lamak. I don't know what's in it yet...I probably never will.
It is hot, but really not any hotter than Texas. It's the humidity that kills you. Even though I am in a commercialized section of K.L. (I have been in many "megamalls," i.e. seven-floor consumerist monstrosities--paeans to the inevitable spread of capitalism), I have noticed alongside centers of affluence, abject poverty. Flanking a road to the center of the city for example, sit rows of abandoned and degenerate housing complexes. Across from four and five-star hotels are colorful tenement buildings, a small park for the children to play in next to an intersection. A dirty river cuts through the scene. Nestled amidst sprawling shopping centers and five-story car parks are dilapidated homes, the stubborn hold-outs of a rampant revitalization campaign.
Just as with many, if not most, of the post-industrial cities of the U.S., Kuala Lumpur is a classic case of "urban revitalization." Here's how it works in a nutshell: the city or federal government buys decaying city infrastructure from the urban poor, then offers the land at a discounted price to urban developers. The urban developers usually raze the infrastructure (i.e. poor housing) in order to erect new, commercial enterprises: shops, services, etc. for the more wealthy city-goers. The poor are displaced, and usually, depending on government policy, are provided money and housing in return for relinquishing their property.
What usually happens? The poor are displaced, not offered comparable housing or payment, pushed to the outside of the city, and the inner city is reconstructed to fit the consumerist dictates of a post-industrial society. K.L. has an added interest in doing this since the inner city is a prime tourist location (the Petronas Towers, etc.)
Interestingly, the rich/poor dichotomy is reflected even in the "megamalls," albeit on a smaller scale. One can easily cross from a Chanel retailer to "Jusco," a poor department store. The lower one goes in Jusco, it appears, the poorer the clientele.
That being said, K.L. is, not surprisingly, rather diverse. Chinese Malaysians walk alongside, Indian Malaysians, walk alongside Malaysian Malaysians, etc., etc. English is spoken predominantly here, or what can be construed as English. I have found myself tempted, many a time, to gesticulate wildly and enunciate as I order something like "creme brulee" (which came back to me as a blueberry crumble.)
My knowledge of Malay is poor. I was corrected on how to say "hello" at a gas station. But there is no such thing as "hello" in Malay. Really there are "good morning," "good afternoon," "good evening" and "good night." I said "good afternoon" and this woman deemed it to be "evening." Difference of opinion I'd argue. On the whole, people are very nice or rather rude. Some will be accommodating, others will act as though you are requesting a Herculean effort for them to turn around and get you a bottle of water. Very well. Small talk is kept to a minimum, and so it is sometimes difficult NOT to be the obnoxious American. I have found that even if they can't understand what you're saying, as long as you smile you have a good chance of getting what you need.
On the whole, I really like it here, and it is rather beautiful, even the poorer bits (but then, as an anthropologist, of course I would find those equally if not more beautiful). I will post more as I push out of the general radius and explore both the overlaying and underlying composition of Malaysia. Check back soon.
Trey
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