Note: pictures taken have been removed because I got tired of waiting half an hour for the blog to publish. I'll be getting a flickr account once I have more time on my hands ie. more procrastination.

I arrived! To a gazillion skyscrapers, many KFC's and McDonald's, a black Audi 6A, a two story house and Beyoncé blasting on the radio. I arrived seeing girls wearing multicolored tank tops and flip flops talking on their cells phones. And a shitload of bicybles and a billion street vendors.
It's something called economy.

I can't read blogs but I can post it seems...


It's a revolution inside. Let it be red.

I was seven the last time I went back to China for a short two month visit. When I returned to school, I had a group of little Belgian admirers crowded around me: as they braided my hair, massaged my hand and traded their (much tastier) lunches with me, I told them about gold incrusted pagodas, pink lotus flowers floating fairly on hand-crafted ponds and cities lit entirely by China-red lanterns. Somewhere in there, I also added that I was a long lost princess who had inherited five thousand finely embroidered silk dresses, 67 Buddhist temples, a palace carved from the finest and purest green jade, and two ivory-coloured elephants. I had some kind of imagination, I was persuasive and most of all I was mischievous. I still laugh to this day.
13 years later, I resolve not to be such a Judas and recount exactly my voyage as I really see, feel and think of it.
My trajectory as I know of now is from Shanghai-Suzhou, Suzhou-Xian, Xian-Beijing, Beijing-Tianjing, Tianjing-Shanghai. In Xian, I have a very short apprenticeship at the teaching hospital where both my grandparents taught medicine. I will be able to see intensive cardiac surgery live, I am thrilled! The rest of the time, I will be traveling by myself. Considering my reputable lack of sense of direction, it should bring forth some definitively interesting, awkward and down-right funny experiences.
In case I disappear or suffer a terribly heroic death, I have entrusted my little sister to inform the readership. Otherwise, I might be able to update once in a while from some computer that is making hyena noises on the last row of a sweat soaked karaoke bar.

You may email me your addresses if you would like to receive a postcard. My post card list is getting long and I love it!
Leaving: 6am. Sunday19th.
Current operation: Packing. Going, going, Gone.

Something to think about:
"... The disaster of China's Cultural Revolution of the 1960s and 1970s, when a few misguided leaders were able to close the school system of the world's largest country for five years, may not be a unique one-time-only aberration, but may presage more such disasters in the future unless China can introduce far more decentralization into its political system. Conversely Europe, in its rush toward political and economic unity today, will have to devote much thought to how to avoid dismantling the underlying reason behind its successes of the last five centuries. " GGS. Diamond.

Les propositions les plus significatives émergent au croisement de plusieurs discipline.
The most meaningful suggestions emerge from the crossing of several disciplines.
So true.


Final Final tomorrow.
Signing lease.
Tearful goodbyes.


Whoa-hey, when I ramble, i go on and on and on...Stop me, it's a disease. There must be a pill for that.

Who would have thought that the God-unfearing, hell raiser, shit disturber that I am grew up in a priest house. No, seriously. For almost a decade, I lived on 4 rue Graffée 5000 Namur, with willow trees weeping in the backyard, a red and blue boulangerie on the East end of the street and a green-signed lycée on the West. Two steps from this house of memories lived Paul-Henri, my very first crush and across from it lived beautiful Vlora, my partner in crime who is now married to an affluent Albanian doctor. There were approximately 60 priests living in that building. Those I remember are Père Ministre, my childhood best friend; Père Sauvage, the philosopher; Père Manon, the biologist. Then there is also the priest who criticized my sloppy violin playing, the priest who taught me all the color symbolism of the Catholic church, the priest who lied sallow in his coffin for a week and is forever frozen as my first encounter with death, the priest who gave me crackers and tea every Sunday at 4pm., the priest who talked for three hours about Beethoven’s 9th Symphony and the priest who spoke the most beautiful words on Sunday 10 o'clock mass. They never forced their beliefs on anyone and they always truly listened instead of waiting for their turn to speak (even if it's a six-year-old speaking). And when they taught (they were mainly professors at l’Université Notre-Dame de la Paix), when they explained things, there was always a sense of tremendous passion for knowledge and inspiring devotion to learning that shone in their eyes, which I later assumed was from an inherent peace of faith.

What came to puzzle me in hindsight after I left Belgium was that such intelligent and knowledgeable men were unable to see the fallacies of the system on which their faith rested upon. Well, I don’t actually know that they were unable to see those fallacies, but at the very least they were able to overlook them. Sure, the story of the Bible is alluring and a true work of art, but believing in its God seems just as reasonable as believing in Greek mythological gods, Atahuallpa’s devine gift, !Xu, or Chinese mythical gods (For instance “盘古开天地”, “女娲造人” are stories that, as a matter of fact, bear eerie similarities to creationist tales familiar to the western world: 盘古(pan gu) split a mass of nothingness with His axe and thus created sky and earth, light and darkness. As he aged, His body metamorphosed into mountains and ravines, creeks and rivers, the moon and the sun etc… In such an empty and lonely world, 女娲 (nv wa) decided to mould, from dust, figurines in Her own image and soon gave them companions. That was some 4000-5000 years ago. Talk about parallel worlds. As a woman, I’d actually prefer this tale. I mean, geez, I always knew women were first to come.) Everything is just so… arbitrary. In order to make sense of it all, I probably came to some conclusion that much resembled a simplified version of Pascal’s Wager--before I even knew Pascal was more than just a pyramid of numbers. (On a tangent, that was not a cheap shot at leveling myself to Pascal: compared to that guy, I’m a baboon. I guess my contention is that there are simply no single original thought, unlike what modernity has fooled us to believe. It all depends on what I call Opportune-Combi-probability which I may or may not elaborate on at a later time. I think A.D. vaguely wrote about the same idea in one of his posts, forgot which one, but in any case it just reinforces 'my' [used loosely] theory). Anyhow, I supposed that in certain logic, in all probability, you gain to have faith. And my dear priests were just smart enough to realize that and chose to believe and it happened to be of Catholic nature.
But regardless of my realization, I just can’t seem to have faith in any construct that does not ring truth to me. Let’s take a random example for God’s sake: the way Moses split the Red Sea in two seems in all honesty as probable as me having 50inch-long legs and a size 36D chest (I’m Chinese). So, no, I prefer not to harbour such illusions. Then, the past few years have made me thoroughly aware of how deceptive believing in science can be as well. I just kept on sinking into some sad existential crisis as I sat surrounded by a thousand careless hung over jocks and unassuming thong revealing JAPs in oversized sweatpants, learning about the various serine-threonine kinases, Rb dysfunctions, Serotonin neurotransmitters, Micro-satellites, genes for nurturing, mating and cleaning behaviours, brain regions crucial for cognitive tasks etc... How someone who once possibly believed in free will and such can instantly be reduced to a bag of totally un-sexy cells in chemical resonance (or not). That perhaps my lack of faith is simply due to an abnormally low level of Dopamine, that my emotional constipation is probably due to some gene RCx225 located 23 cM from the centromere of chromosome 8 and that the way I absorb everything visually is due to the increased activity of metabotropic receptors in the superior left frontal lobe of my brain. Maybe I’ve just developed prejudices that make me unable to find scientific explanations cool, beautiful, or empowering enough. Damn conditioning.
So I guess, I’m stuck suffering a little technical glitch right now. It seems like I’m playing a torturous waiting game on a quest to make a change while trying to study my way into med school in order to work as a Médecin sans frontières someday, as cliché as it may sound. Meanwhile, I feel like such a douche under-using my axons and dendrites like the procrastinator that I am, blogging my life away (considering the size of this massive post, oopsie daisies :S). But hey, at least I can blame it on the genes.

Anyway, I suppose it would be a lie to say that I lack faith entirely, for I’ve always fervently believed in the existence of truth, as vague as it may be. And as brilliantly put by LaRoi:
"I don’t believe in God; I believe in Truth. And if my journey towards Truth should lead me to God, then so be it.-- "


I’m a tool.


So much depends upon a life of probability. Whatever happened to the free will of the panglossian fourteen-year-old girl wearing a pretentious black beret who followed some bourgeois trend like some sad puppy dog with mournful eyes (yes, what an embarassing past)? Whatever happened to religiously believing in my will to power and not feeling like a cookie cutter mould? Please convince me that I just don’t happen to be here and that I can still change something and do something other than be a puppet stringed to a panoply of biochemical reactions? Instances of whiny existential crisis at twenty are fucking un-cool. No, the answer is not that I need to get laid.

So no “Make a crack about her celibacy” will be allowed.

You may however cordially send me your existentialist hate threats (like on Naz's blog a while back) or words of wisdom (cuz i got none')below while I sit here and continue listening to Hier Encore and try to drill more useless stuff into this fucking bitter brain.

P.S.: Thanks to Love is a Cunt., I now have an answer to my existential crisis: here.



London June 2004
Jarle Ausland
Source: photo.net

Exactly two years ago someone wrote: Endlessly lying, endlessly writing.
I used to think lies were beautiful.
Now they aggravate me.
I must have changed. How silly.

Currently exams, writing a play, work, in withdrawal and denial, exhausted but so is everyone, so i'll keep on being totally trendy. 7 days Montreal. 3 days Toronto. Then back to the motherland on my own. It has been thirteen years but it feels more like sixteen. Time to be an étrange outsider again. Scared and anxious. Confused and eager. I am dizzy with uncertainty. I think I've imploded in thoughts and questions for the past 10 days. The next 10 will be hectic. And so will the 40days and 40nights that will follow. Pray for me? ...or whatever, fuck gods. I'm on my own. .. and will be carrying a red suitcase. Now, That's holly hot.

Bus doodles




"Chong leaves on a lonely journey. Chong doesn't ride a bicycle or take a boat. He turns his back on the others and walks a kindness of his own at the speed of clotting blood."

Read: My Beatles by Satoh Makoto. Short play.

Think the usual thought on how gods- the sacred or the pop-culture projections of our desires- can't help to bring about change in scenes of social injustice.
Think fading orange skies and chimney silhouettes; Red high heels and rainbow lollipops.
You'll see.


Gone for 60 days.