Archive for the ‘Performing Arts’ Category

Letter: Call to Arms

…and Money in New World Order

A suggestion has turned up that we create an international magazine in print, starting perhaps weekly, supplemented daily, online, primarily written in the English, geographical preference Asia-Pacific, but which is ‘unabashedly Chinese’.

Unabashed avoids the term ‘pro’. It insinuates vigor of thinking, not reporting certainly, and not Anglophone fancy language which, really, is just red gleaming cover of a witch’s poisoned apple offered to a Snow White public. It shall not be The New Yorker, but better, that Gucci and Versace version of such back-street copy-imitations as Malaysiakini, run by the same circus of persons, first job at Reuters, goes to Singapore’s Straits Times, where they recycle the same tired stenographic, rigmarole about ‘speaking truth to power’, about freedom and independence, without an inkling about what truly it is they regurgitate. They reproduce banalities sponged from Anglophone universities, the residual death pond for ‘journalists’ on the final lap of their useless mortality.

To be Chinese is, therefore, to be what they are not, trite, repetitive, automatons of banal thinking.

The Chinese arts and sciences, and economics and politics are rich reservoirs of ideas to draw comparisons against hegemonic western ideas that tolerate no counter-narrative.

Example: Do you know that the first paper currency was issued in China circa 100 BCE and that, in its turn, served Dunhuang (in Gansu) as a locus of an international two-way trade, requiring, in turn, a foreign exchange regime. Because it’s easy to carry and is exchangeable, paper currency didn’t just drive trade but staged the issue of debt. With debt came safe-vaults that held bundles of silk or pieces of gold as debt collateral. You can still find remnants of those in Gansu and Xi’an, created not unlike, in principle, to the modern safe-deposit boxes. Trade, foreign exchange, currency, debt and so on had ramifications for monetary policies, today conceived in the Western theoretical monetary theories.

Shoot these theories through Chinese practices, past and present, the result is a better understanding of how businesses could evolve, manage, and develop. Shoot dialectical Hegelian philosophy into Confucian politics, the result is a better approach to government, national ideology, civil administration and foreign relations — as opposed to the hollow, meaningless and crappy Tsai Ing-wen either/or slogans about democracy.

Being unabashedly Chinese is not gumption because in speech even dogs can bitch. It is the intellectual ability to call out the West, America especially: Prove you are freer than Chinese. Show us proof and we’d show you 1.4 billion instances of greater Chinese freedom. Being unabashedly Chinese is being bold and original in thinking and writing. Hemingway says the two are interconnected activities: you won’t know what it is you thought a minute ago until it is written down. Gabriel Marquez says good writing is like carpentry. Such a publication needs carpenters (below), lots of them but the Anglophone universities churn out shit.

To do well requires a priori knowledge. A bank sells itself, the rest of the bank which it brags about in advertising is pure, unadulterated claptrap. But, how do you sell a Thought versus, say, a sofa or an insurance policy?

Perhaps the thing to do is never to sell news or ‘analysis’ because neither has precious little to do with the reader.

So what if Malaysiakini gives a blow-by-blow interpretation of Najib Razak’s trial? The reader’s time is better spent watching Stevie Gan jerk off on the courtroom bench. Reading about the trial, the reader is no better off nor the wiser. Life remains short, nasty and brutish; my business is running short on cash; the packing line went kaput yesterday; my girl friend is distraught because Windows has crashed (down with Microsoft!), the YSL lipstick has a funny taste. (For solutions to all above, try Stoicism.) Meanwhile, the elite continues their plunder and lies, only this time these are better hidden because they and the editors are ‘like-minded’.

The publication ought to have better things to think and write about than being ‘like-minded’ — the sharing of stupidity.

The problem is making money from it. To be profitable, being good isn’t good enough. It must sell. To sell… well?

Below, too, is an example of what the publication should aspire: Intelligence. Exposing the American lie not only tells the truth but it points to the direction where lies the future, where it is safe to live and work, and what is the fate of trading in the US dollar.

Think about it: For the first time since 1945, somebody blows up a US military base and it dares not shoot back. We are at the cusp of the New World Order and the new publication proposes to advance and reflect that.

Drop us a line in Comments, this group of the smart and foolhardy especially if you got ideas, a ready, enforceable contract, or simply to support. Forget crowdfunding. That’s like a crow cawing every morning outside a fish market waiting for the innards.


US Killed Soleimani to Torpedo Iran-Saudi detente

Speaking truth to Media power that spread lies on behalf of the West:

Vietnam, Iraq, Libya, Ukraine, Russia, Venezuela, Iran, and about China Xinjiang, Hong Kong. Why?


From the world’s greatest nation

…the most exquisite pieces, and they have to do with a fisherman, a temple, and a mountain stream!

It started with eight strings. Today, it has 32, the same instrument for, as far as the written records show, 2,450 years! The bamboo flute below is even longer.


Above, two musical tones, two instruments; one feisty, the other quiet, one obtrusive, the other gentle; dancing, one with the other, in perfect yinyang harmony. It comes only from China.

Below, a Chinese signature piece: How will we ever live without it?


Only in China, my amazing mother China…

Pure, unadulterated, utter beauty


Above, it isn’t just her dexterity and her complete immersion into the instrument, but watch her actually beat it.


I hear she (above) has passed on our inheritance to hundreds of students, and from them onward to others. The histories in the music above and below are individually longer than the history of USA, and it wants to tell us how we should live? Fuck off America.

After Soleimani, remember America’s threat by tweeter to destroy Iran’s cultural sites? Let the rest of the world remember — forever — why America must first be destroyed.

We Chinese have millions of such sites, both historical and human. The musicians above and below are also priceless repositories of our culture.

Who threatens? Are Iranians camped in Mexico?


The guzheng above is more curved than previous ones and so produced a different timbre in the tone.


They are so delightful!

No, not the bridges, roads and rails, the rockets, the moon landing, the 5G and the GDP. All that is the easy part.

Rather, it is the unity of culture and civilization in their highest forms that Hegel and Geothe call Voltgeist, other Germans call Zeitgeist or Spirit. They (above and below) show why we Chinese, collectively, make the world’s greatest nation.



Malays tried to copy beating the drum and, seriously, they sound like shit.

Above, that’s how you beat the drum: Do they have any idea, any at all, what a drum is used for?

We have been practising it for more than 3,000 fucking years, so don’t expect to get it right in a generation. Get it, Malaiyoo?





Hong Kong Black Shirt rioter in Mainland?

Wrong! Jian’s friend from Harbin.

The photo stresses her eyes, the same as Jian’s, almond shape, black crystal jade.

It was on top of this mountain the photos, above and below, were taken. She needed to get to the other side and the only way through is, walk. Below, midway rest stop.

She says the place has wifi — holy cow! — hence the photos.

I have trekked through such mountains during the summers. I swear to you, you won’t want to do it again. Not even in pariah Malaysian flying taxis, which can’t fly high enough anyway.


While waiting for her friend to return: Jian’s winning hand.


Southern Chinese almond eyes



Russiagate, Ukrainegate, now Irangate…

Warmonger Pompeo to be fired? Then CIA…?

And kill that motherfucker named Hillary Clinton and that Nigger-with-a-Muslim name.


Iran and US talks over Weibo


And here’s the Chinese intermediation-reply to Yanks

妈拉个巴子 肏你妈

(Sorry, no translation. Look up Google, Yankee!)


China interviews Iran


China discusses Iran on French service


China’s Debt Market in Correction



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Gawd, I love this wall decoration, esp the part, ‘Whatever happens here, stays here.‘ So Chinese, so Confucian, so filial.

Source: MakeMyDayStationery


Why US dare not strike back: Russia, China join forces to help Iran against US-ISIS Terrorism

Iran: Time is now, cut off US at its knees

We Chinese agree

Here today, gone tomorrow:

Flattened US base. Below, the men and things that did it to Yankees.


US yada, yada shows from the ‘Independent, Free Press’ (sic)


Putin visits Damascus, later Istanbul


China supports Iran nuclear ambition…

What America destroys in Iraq, we China will rebuild.


Korea DPRK: The bomb is best guarantee of freedom against US terrorism


It’s been now confirmed, we’ll take the northern most route and lined up the rest when capacity increases. This will be dual use, a rail and road below sea tunnel and bridge. Total distance 122 km.


China Mainland to build a bridge into Taiwan


The world’s most spectacular bridges are in China


Below are schematic samples, the second clip in particular, about what we can accomplish, even in the most challenging topography.

(This ain’t for shit hole, mosquito-minded Malaysia.)


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Image result for 屈原

Duanwu on the Fifth Day of the Fifth Month

Sometimes Dumpling Festival, sometimes Dragon Boat, but it is the same person Qu Yuan that the Chinese nation reveres with the highest honor, yearly, for 2,300 years and so we renew our commitment to his highest ethical principles:

  • Personal Sacrifice, and
  • Loyalty to Nation till Death!


File:Li sao illustré (crop).png

Above, a 1645 reproduction copy of Li Sao 离骚 by Qu Yuan 屈原 (c. 340–278 BC). He would have used the script (below, top row), started about 3,000 years ago, and which began to evolve during the Qin era, circa 200 BCE, to the present version and the simplified form (last row).

Li Sao (Chinese characters).svg

Earlier copies, above and below. Note Qu Yuan’s original work, below, is transcribed in the present script form.

Below are the last four lines from Li Sao which could just as well have been his suicide note. In its highly structured Chinese script and stylistic and lyrical quality — i.e. you can sing it — Li Sao ranks as one of the Chinese most remarkable and literary best.

Since in that kingdom all my virtue spurn,
Why should I for the royal city yearn?
Wide though the world, no wisdom can be found.
I’ll seek the stream where once the sage was drowned.

At 373 lines and 2,400 characters (646 lines in English, 7,000 words) Li Sao is an extraordinarily long poem even by today’s standards. The themes are varied, parts autobiographical, concerning ethics and honor, purity and impermanence. A strong political undercurrent runs right through the poem.

This is to be expected because Qu Yuan was a senior official in the State of Chu, one of the three during the Warring States period. Court infighting, when it reached the king, made his position untenable. He was banished to the south, settling in Zigui, 秭归县, at present a county in Hubei province on the Yangtze, population 60 million. He threw himself into Zigui’s Miluo River.

Li Sao 离骚 has been translated variously as ‘encountering sorrow’, ‘sorrow upon departure’ and ‘estranged sorrow’. The English translation earlier was by Yang Hsien-yi and Gladys Yang both of who prefer ‘The Lament’. Last four lines in Chinese:



Li Sao as sung.



The following clips feature dance forms going back 1,500 to 2,000 years ago. The dances were actually copied and extrapolated from the frescoes, grottoes and on the walls of cave dwellings in northern China, parts of which, including dresses, headwear, and fashion jewelry were reproduced in the dancers and as stage backdrops.


So exquisite is this splendor of Chinese artistic culture that it makes look the best western dance forms as kindergarten play.



Elements of the art collectively known as Flying Aspara were dramatized in a segment of the film ‘House of Flying Daggers’.



One of the dance pieces called 采薇 caiwei, or ‘Picking Ferns‘, is so popular it has spawned varied versions, below. The term caiwei is found in a passage in the Confucius Analects.

But wei 薇 is also name to a family of ferns growing naturally at the banks of streams. Why picking? Because in the old days they wash wounds by the stream and, conveniently, you can, if you know which, pick these ferns, mesh into paste and apply as a quick relief from cuts. At a mountain stream long ago, Jian taught me to recognize those species but I forget.


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Phar Kim Beng:

Coconut Head, Genetically Flawed

Related image




The World’s Oldest Instrumental Duet 古筝 +


World’s Oldest Music Solo


The World’s newest music — made from the Oldest.

Beauty is felt not seen: Hear the difference? Can you hear the beauty?


Happiness? Who needs it?


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老家 laojia


Update: MCA and Malaysian Chinese future



The World’s Greatest Vocalist

李健 Li Jian


《紅豆曲 + 一生所愛》

Red Bean Rhapsody + Love All Through Life


Dust’s Destiny


At the Water’s Edge

True to his Chinese upbringing Li Jian is very socially conscious, always mindful of other people (see clip immediately below and Jayant’s) — another reason why he is adored in China. He reflects the Chinese society we are rebuilding, our renaissance, which is opposite to the egoist, narcissistic Western/Christian/Anglophile or Islamic cultures/civilizations that pay more attention to personal, individual salvation, whatever that is.




The future of humanity is in East Asia

Jayant Bhandari may be right about East Asia humanities. His mention of the Chinese reading habit is true. In Jian’s village, population 18,000, there is one library and one stationery shop. But every morning a couple will push and pull a cartload of books and park themselves outside the wet market. They will stay there until dust. Books alone won’t earn enough, so they also sell stationery. This reading habit is also prevalent in Korea and Japan, and has to do with the Confucian emphasis on education, both formal and informal.

Jayant doesn’t seem to know there is a springboard common to the region. That is, the bedrock of Korean and Japanese cultures, like language, society, rituals, critical thinking and habits of mind had their origins in China, namely Confucianism and Daoism — both of which, for crying out loud, are not religions; these are religion-free. Which is another way of saying, Christianity and Islam are utter voodoo. We, as humans, can be good, far, far better even, without the tyranny of some bothersome, foreign desert god, 10,000 km away, cultivated out of camel dung. See this: China’s role in East Asia.


Postscript: Li Jian’s 紅豆曲 + 一生所愛 medley. Below are the original and other renditions:



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Reading that, below, you would be rolling on the floor, soon dead, laughing…



“May I suggest?”

No, you may not!

What a conceited fucking mamak.

And, “Rakyat Bonds?”

Those are Doomsday Bonds!



Each passing week, without fail, if not breaking some contract or other sort of agreement, they are breaking their own manifesto, written by themselves! So many deals to break.

Imagine when GE15 turns up and should Pakatan lose, the new government says, We’re going to do same, fuck all their bonds, fuck all their contracts — and fuck your manifesto.

Yes, Malaysia baru! Mahathir boleh!

This Syed Akbar Ali has no idea, absolutely none, what is the bedrock of a bond issue. He doesn’t even know the elementary economics going into it, much less how a bond issue works, in particular bonds issued by a pariah country called Malaysia. Like Mahathir, these stupid motherfucking mamaks — and Anglophiles. And they so much like people to think they are so clever.



The Nation-State Culture

“There, where we live, there is our nation, our culture!”


And it isn’t Malaysia. There, we throw stones into Mahathir’s windows. Where we live is where are hearts belong: China, our Motherland where in the splendor of our culture (clips below), we can truly live and thrive to perfection.


The Collar 子衿


qing qing my collar qing, echo echo my heart echoes
standing at the gate tower I look out into the distance
one day not seeing you seems now like three months long






This is a Song era poem put to music. Singer is 雲の泣



[In translation]

I live in Changjiang* head.
Lord lives in Changjiang tail.
Days pass, never seeing, missing Lord you,
Though we both drink from Changjiang water.

When shall this flow cease,
When shall this hate end,
So our hearts may melt into one,
Never again this yearning to last.


*Changjiang is the Yangtze River.

What are the above poems about? Answer: saudade. As the Portuguese poet Teixeira de Pascoaes defines it, “the desire for the beloved thing, made painful by its absence.”


Perfection in everything: Mastered to perfection, Chinese artistic and literary culture, above and below, our aesthetic sense, depth and range, past and present, makes for the finest in the world.

What do the Anglophiles have? What do the Mahathirs and the RPKs have? And the DAP? Bangsa Malaiyoo? Monkeys climbing coconut trees? Voodoo Christ?



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Behind the Mask

Spring came then the rent fell due, and Jian returned to Panjin after completing her assignments. But it is I who feels the pangs of remorse. How else is a confession exorcised if not here?

Panjin faces the Yellow Sea. From here it is nearer to North Korea than to Beijing, faster to get to Vladivostok in the east than to Shanghai in the south. The Japanese took its province of Liaoning, bombed and occupied Shenyang in 1931 on the excuse of the Mukden ‘Incident’. Later, they would again passed Panjin then moved on Beijing. Thus had begun the Japanese conquest and seizure of China. They never could go far, not even 14 years later when WWII ended. In that time, the Japs killed and starved to death more than 30 million of us. Deployed against Shenyang, 160,000 on our side, were just 60,000 Jap troops; yet we lost. It won’t happen again.

Next day, Jian is still distraught, feeling a sense of incompetence, she tells me. Life has become unbearable but she doesn’t know how to respond. In return I offered only silence, without even the words of comfort. When will you come, she asked. Summer when the grass (below) turns red, I replied. We’ll walk the beach and watch the cranes.

It is a promise I don’t know if I will keep, or can keep. Perhaps this is the reason for the remorse.

Xi Jinping has spoken of war and our readiness for that eventuality. If, indeed, war comes then we must continue to endure our separation. For now, we keep our masks on as if time and space pass by for no reason other than they have to.

We search for motives when there are none to be found.

In Crime and Punishment, Dostoyevsky devoted much of the plot not on the murder of the pawnbroker who prefaces the novel. Instead the book went on a quest, searching for Raskolnikov’s motive. But, who should deserve their respective fates: Raskolnikov for the murder or the greedy pawnbroker, murdered because she lends money at extortionate rates?

Dostoyevsky explored two kinds of people, the law abiding and the law breaker.

On that premise, you can see why those out to create a new world order (the absurd class called the ‘New Malay’), people like Mahathir Mohamad, are no less guilty of breaking the law. They have to: When new ways of thought and edicts are introduced to replace existing ones, the old ways must first be broken and stamped out. This explains Mahathir’s constant railing against the Malays in a senseless attempt to dispose their traditions and conduct and then overlay that with new models of behavior, new laws on old ones, the things we’d call ‘values’.

Be wary therefore when Mahathir accuses Najib Razak of being a criminal and a thief. Mahathir is no less a law-breaker than Najib; the former, who, behind the mask of serving a greater good — Save Malaysia — is willing to kill the pawnbroker.

Had Mahathir himself not broken every law? Had he not wage war against the same people he said he now want rescued? Who then is more dangerous: Raskolnikov or the pawnbroker? Man with mask or thief?

More dangerous than a kleptocrat is a snarling, rabid dog — Mahathir —  who, having trampled on the old and birthed all the new, has produced the Malaysian society one sees today: retrograde in every facet of life that opposition politicians and a chanting lynch mob now blame a thief as the cause of the malaise. It doesn’t make sense. Najib’s ways might lead to discomfort, even disdain from the world, but Mahathir’s way leads to destruction and war.


The Cranes are Back


This (above, below) is the incredible, surreal Red Beach of Panjin. It is formed by the Suaeda salsa (碱蓬草) specie of marsh grass that starts to grow in April then deepen in red as it matures and as the growth cycle moves into summer before its decline in Fall. This specie is found no where else. The red-crowned crane (further below), which the Japanese airline JAL uses as its logo, reproduces here. I am told they have started to fly in, to feed and then to breed. Together Jian and I will watch.





Mourning before death


The Face Masks the Heart

With colleagues on summer fashion assignments: why is the face so good at masking the turmoils of the heart?

Clothes, bags, accessories are sale items.


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We Chop Wood, Xi Entertains the Rich

(This is Part 2/2 of US-China. Part 1.)


After a while it’s impossible to continue with the clip (above) when one has lived through the scenes, seen the difficulties, indeed, far too many times, and so the memories are painful. Only ignorant White people make a sob story out of it, missing therefore the underlying core issue, which is, the scale of China’s domestic problems are vast and deep even though they are not new, hence, all the more, they require state attention far more urgently than being a superpower or being an emperor. (See this for example, Part 1 in China two-part superpower series.)

Should Xi Jinping fail in the next five years, his political and moral legitimacy as ’emperor’ and, along with him, the entire raison d’etre of the Communist Party are done in.

Why can’t you get it, Fan Jiayang? Or are you, like all those Charlies, so utterly dumb?


We Chat inside a Melancholy Nation


On WeChatRelated image, I found Gu Yue’s diary postings from last December deleted in its entirety, all of it over nearly an entire year the daily postings of banal human activities, what she had for dinner, her favorite music, the shopping mall she went with her infant child. This couldn’t be the mere eradication of a memory. No, surely, there was something ominous to it because we, the Chinese, tended to endure our pain quietly, never to speak of it. Silence comes with being ominous.

“What’s happened?” I asked. No reply. At the next: “What’s with the silence?” No reply again.

China, because of its continental size, requires we live a long-distance relationship. WeChat mitigates the distance, but it is never a substitute. Only our Confucian values that underpin the conduct of our lives have kept us going and together.

After a long week, punctured here and there by an inexplicable chill in the bones, this had to be said and so it was: “At the least, tell me why?”

Her eventual reply:  没 是 meishe. “It’s nothing.”

This was typical Chinese understatement: Nothing meant everything.

Up north at Liaoning winter comes early, the baby needs warm clothes, not to mention her. Her rent was due, she was short of money, very short, and she had no support even if she asked around, which she won’t, of course. Even at the new flat, it cost 13,000 yuan (MYR 6000) a year with half down if she was to move in from a more expensive one.

She had apparently spent the last two weeks doing especially all that.

I can only offer money but this is never a solution; it is only palliative.



CCP poster circa 1970 when city party cadres (picture above says Shanghai) were urged to learn from the countryside in a campaign called 上山下乡 shangshan xiaxiang, ‘Up the mountain, down to the village!’

Don’t bother 同志们. We’re coming to you.


Don’t Look Back at the Mountain

Like the Wang family in the Chongqing documentary, Jian also came from the mountains. She got her money, 100,000 yuan, last year alone and the family in the mountain is slightly better off but only in the sense that there is a little more meat in the food, the children are fed more often, and everyone is less dependent on foraging for mountain seeds, buds, leaves, timber and firewood. With a further 60,000 yuan (about MYR30,000) from the municipal government, Jian’s father had replaced the mud-floor house, where on the bare bamboo bed you can count the stars through the roof in the night. The derelict is replaced today by a concrete building, still perched on a mountain slope, only lower down. A toilet with piped-in water has replaced the hole near the cow shed.

But, any which you look at it, poverty is still the mountain. It is, you see, bred there.

“I have worked so hard to get out,” Jian once told me. “I’m not going back.”

She hadn’t in the past five years.

To the foreign eye, though, White people especially and even Malaysians, the mountain and its farms make a picture postcard serenity, something like a holiday home. Water flows out of the mountain; the air is crispy clean. Everywhere life thrives, the birds sing. Then the pump broke down and to replace it, if you have the money, is an hour away even via a new concrete road recently completed by the municipal government.

Before that, in her childhood, she would have to cover the same distance through another trail in two hours. This short cut winds through the mountains. With grandma, they stopped at the mountain top to rest. It was at the same spot, I had watched a scene of unimaginable beauty: the rapeseed plants blossomed yellow, terraced fields, neat rows of paddy and maize, and the endless swirling clouds caught hanging over the valleys. In the city market and seated on a road pavement, Jian and grandma sold their collection of wild mushrooms, chillies, sweet potatoes and leaves for wrapping dumplings. That day, they made 60 yuan.

Since I also consume water, I volunteered one day — this was years later — to fetch it from the stream near the house. Back and forth, up and down a dirt trail, two pails strapped to a bamboo pole, it took almost an hour to fill the two cisterns in the kitchen. The water would last two days, if we don’t use it to shower. Next day, I went with her to collect mushrooms, slipped and nearly went down a crevice, which looks like 40 or 50 stories deep, but was caught by the branches of pines and cypress. She howled to her teenage brother foraging on another face of the mountain.

Day Six we went looking for firewood because the nights were getting colder. The higher up you climb, the better the chance you’d find dry, solid pine wood. One log will burn through the night but you have to chop it up into manageable pieces in order to take it home. You don’t want twigs although they are everywhere; they finish burn within minutes. But, the higher up you go, the more there is to climb down. On the way home, at a small clearing overlooking the graying weeds into the valley below, we put down our wicker baskets to rest. It was getting late and the night was closing in. Grandma would be cooking already: after a week there is still a sack of pork we had brought back with us from the city. We smoked. She tugged at my waist belt and wondered, aloud, what it was like to make love in the mountains.

The mountain is indifferent to what you make of it….

Because the mountain had been Jian’s childhood and teenage life for 18 years, it can’t be what it appears, certainly not from her point of view: there is as much trouble as it is beautiful. The point, therefore, was to give it up. And, you begin to see why the Chinese government has made a big deal of urbanizing the population to 70-80 percent from 30, 40 percent at present. Only naive, ignorant western reporters and Anglophiles think much of the farms.



Easy Come, Easy Go City Life

In the mountains, there is no broadband, no WiFi, so that a WeChat account is practically useless. Back in the city, Jian still went by the WeChat moniker Gu Yue. I hadn’t seen her in almost six months, during which time things happen: she has had a second abortion, and the motherfucker of a man had left her holding not only the baby who had just turned one but also with unpaid rents. Now, with child to care for, no paying work is possible.

In a mountain village, there’s just the food to worry, occasionally fire and water, and lots of small inconveniences bundled up. In the city, all inconveniences are eradicated. Out of which is birthed the burden of so many conveniences. And conveniences require money that goes to child, rent, hospital, fashion, day-care, travel, holidays, iPhone and WiFi, shopping malls, even just a drink of water; on WeChat Gu Yue orders dinner, buys clothes, book hospital appointments, and borrow money. Money being drained like this, daily, without ceasing, it is easy to see why the mountain stays poor if it’s going to be supported by a city woman, a single mother in particular, riding on WeChat.

The city gives money but also takes it away — quickly, too, thanks in large part to the Web — and, this easy come, easy go sub-culture finds expression in Gu Yue’s WeChat messages.

“Men won’t support another man’s child. Why do it?”

“I’m not a saint. But the child is also you.”

“If you are going to send me money, use WeChat; it’s faster.”

Underpinning this materialism is a dearth of ethical values that had been shaved out of China’s economic expansion. America’s insistence, and threats made (or else), that China pumps up its consumer demand is a bad omen. For certain, household debts will rise. It means making easier for Jian to borrow more than the 50,000 yuan, the limit she has reached owing some online credit companies to which she simply has to ask, and it would be given. There, those motherfuckers call it technology finance, ‘fintech’ in short: no collateral, nothing, other than digitizing her identity card details, including the provision of names of all her family members and a meaningless mountain address. My name is probably in there as well though I haven’t asked, and probably never will.

Xi Jinping harking back to history in resurrecting China refers to those values that had in ancient times underpinned the nation’s greatness: filial piety, modesty, introspection, plan in spring for the winter, and so on. Get off the Web was not one of them, though. But, without those ethical values, merely growing the household income looks like a recipe for disaster and China was right to lean on the banks to curb lending to companies like Wanda. Start with the big.

The opening up of China has caused Jian today to be both poorer and richer than her parent’s generation. And to what end?


“When will you come?” she said over a WeChat call at the end of our exchange of messages recently.

I’m not sure, and I can’t say it and didn’t. I simply said, soon.

In the end, I suspect she knows that nobody owes her a living and if anybody must be held to account for her state of affairs then it is she: blame no social system, no ideology, no government, nor the rest of the world. As much as Xi is responsible for state welfare — not world dominance which isn’t his job —  then she is responsible for her own, counting her child as well. This ethical value about her is invaluable. I can see it, hear it in her voice and tones and, so, can only help lighten her burdens in order for her day to pass easier and more bearable.

But what for? Love probably, whatever that is, and duty, and a life in China.

The rest of the world, America, Donald Trump, Fan Jiayang and the like of them; they can fuck off.

When the winter holidays come, I will go to Liaoning, maybe even cross into North Korea with Jian and her child. Perhaps we won’t get to come back, hopefully….



Fan Jiayang, above, liking herself, and getting away with the pretense she knows more than she does all because she is Chinese and China-born — Yankees, you see, are so short of ‘Sinologists’. Her life attitude reminds of Hannah Yeoh, another super Anglophile bitch, self-serving in her liberal morality, racked by an insecurity of being confronted by a illiberal world out to get her.

Below, Jian, completely distraught: Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina who threw herself onto the rail tracks has problems that pale in comparison.

不讓我的眼淚陪我過夜: 不会 我的爱


The above guzheng music piece 高山流水 was found mentioned in 吕氏春秋 Annals of Lu Buwei (modern book cover below), Lu being a senior ranking government official from the Qin dynasty, circa 200BC. Excerpts here.

The story about the music went farther back, the Zhou era. This then dates 高山流水 at least 2,600 years. The thing about the Chinese arts: it never grows old which, in its turn, greatly enriches Chinese culture, growing and reproducing over time. It defies death.

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It doesn’t matter whether an opinion is correct; it always matters who holds it.

— Karl Kraus (1874-1936). Once described as the ‘master of venomous ridicule’, Kraus, an Austrian born in present day Czech Republic, had been nominated thrice for the Nobel literature prize.



Above, Clare screaming out of her lungs: “Listen to me, folks, here are my answers to your problems. Sin not, for God shall bring Sodom and Gomorrah upon you.” Note that her golden brown hair sits very well with yellow, the politically correct color of the day.

In another time, Mahathir Mohamad, below, would be Clare’s target, as it were, she’d call him all sorts of names, a dictator, an autocrat, even Hitler Ali, a man presiding over the ruin of mankind and the end of Malaysia. Today, though, they are joint saviors of the country.

So, what happened in between?

Might she, therefore, change her mind one day about Najib Razak? And about all the Malays as well, whom she calls ‘Comical Alis’. If she does change her mind, who might she wish to pick on as the next Paragon of Sin? Here’s one Clare: ‘The Ching Chongs‘…. It’s just a suggested title which, one must confess, was plagiarized. Below:

Ching chong Chinaman
sat on a rail.
Along comes a White man
to chop off his tail.

Those exact lines are from John Steinbeck’s ‘Cannery Row’ (1945); cannery as in a canning factory. Over to you, Mrs Brown….


Introducing Cannery Row to the Old Horse, eh, Clare? Or is it some profound book we hadn’t heard of? Teach us, our Venerable Laojie 老姐….


In Defense of the ‘Comical Alis’

Well into 2015 when Clare Rewcastle-Brown began publishing online 1MDB, she must have felt like a Julian Assange of WikiLeaks because, before that, who would have heard of Sarawak Report. Who would have cared anyway? Even the pigs didn’t, but not anymore. The Guardian now thinks a big deal of her; the British believing she, even alone, can take on entire governments, from the deserts to the jungles. She is one of them, after all: liberal, moralistic, puffed up, and with powers to change the world, themselves excepting, of course.

Today, Clare gloats. Nobody, it seems, can ‘snuff‘ her out. It would be a pass to governments worldwide: Clare Rewcastle-Brown is the people! The immediate cause of her jubilation is MYR130,000 (GBP 24,000) she had raised online from 500 ‘supporters’ out of the a world population of, shall we say, 6 billion? She calls the money ‘Justice Fund‘ which is for lawyer and court expenses arising from a defamation suit brought against her by one brown-skin Ali named PAS. (If Justice Fund is yet another ponzi scheme, like 1MDB, Malaysia is sucked in again, only this time by a White woman instead of some made-in-Wharton Anglophiles and Arabian towel heads.)

For the moment, return to 2015 because, by then, Clare must have sensed, like Assange, she could crush any government and not just the British ones (that is, British so long as it is not named after a Brown). This is the sort of power over not specific, influential individuals but especially entire institutions, indeed an entire way of life even if foreign to her.

Clare is no Kafka (against bureaucracy) nor Virginia Woolf (against reality). What she lacked in intellectual power she would make up with an instrument and something far less tangible. The first is called the Internet, the second is her left morality.

Delivering the second into the first, and from 12,000 km away, she would bring to Malaysia the western dichotomy of state versus individual. In this is the idea that anyone with a private life must have something to hide, a notion not far behind her Christian upbringing in which sin is a natural state — all are born into it; there is no escape. Privacy, thus, is the liberal version of the biblical story she would have heard since a child: don’t go the apple of that tree! When curiosity got the better of Eve and she did, there was the hidden Sin waiting.

In modern day terms, the end of (government) privacy is the end of dictatorship, exposed in all its hideous nakedness. There is a caveat to this demand: only individuals are entitled to privacy but not persons in the like of Najib Razak or Jho Low, even if any of them is not in government. Thus is Jho Low exposed in his sins, living up with White women, necking on board yachts, driveling his head into the tits of Paris Hilton. The Internet has never been a private place for safe chat room conversations.

In Clare’s double standards, privacy, so it appears, is something she bestows and is applicable only when it goes beyond the gates her own cunt. Other people are fair game because it is the righteous thing to do; that is, she is doing journalistic exposes; she is doing the world a favor; she is doing good deeds (however defined).

Out of this contradictory, morality ways of White society, what is considered acceptable conduct is therefore what Clare says it is. As in Karl Kraus (top of page quotation), western morality has always been who says it is, never if it is right or reasoned in. (In Chinese intellectual thought, we have always, always insisted on the opposite.)

This — her ultimate revolt against her upbringing — was long due. The German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche, declaring the end of western culture and the death of God, had seen it coming 100 years before Clare. That, all her Christian values being an utter sham, she becomes her own god. Being her own god is the 11th Commandment issued: Thou shall not fornicate with governments.

Thus is made universal a morality that had once belonged solely to her society and, from which it had arisen, the privacy that had only been applicable to her bedroom. Does it therefore surprise you that the Clares of England would spawn such like-minded Anglophiles as different in age and in background as Hannah Yeoh, Josh Hong, Sumisha Naidu and Annabelle Lee? Or in such duplicitous Malay characters as varied as Zaid Ibrahim, Ahirudin Attan, Mahathir Mohamad, then back down to unknown bigots like Eddy Daud?

In this upended, new moralistic, liberal order, Clare sees governments as an inherent Evil to be done away with and it didn’t matter if it isn’t her government: ‘I’m doing it for mankind’. She actually believes she is saving the world. (In Mahathir’s heydays when Clare hadn’t yet made a name for herself and when mankind was limited only to the British Labour party, Ahi Attan, duly reporting, would quote the Old Horse to condemn western interference in the Sarawak jungles, saying, ‘the West only want the Penans to study as museum pieces‘. Today, Mahathir wants Clare’s intervention.)

Because Clare’s entire moral existence survives only on the Net (Sarawak Report in particular), could she afford to step out of it? Of course not, because, if she did, she would fall apart; so frail is the Ego grown in the orchards of Eden.

Westerners never would have imagined that in their post-Christian world, they could have no crutches to lean on once they each made themselves god: the mind would be out of their bodies, and their God out of their souls. But, that it has happened simply showed that with privacy gone there can be no soul because it is the only thing private that there is left. The soul is the only place where all privacy finds refuge; it is the only thing internal to the person.

Out of sight, out of mind, as they like to say.

This result, brought ashore to Malaysia, is as unsettling as it is devastating. Unsettling because Najib Razak could find no refuge from Clare Rewcastle-Brown, Malays would become comical Alis, though we, the Chinese, raised in the ways of our ancestors and by Confucius, are inoculated against Clare’s apple poison.

And the devastation is this, the more Najib et al challenge her, the more determined Clare becomes. It’s her Life after all, so that the more exposes there is to expose, the more invigorating it is for her, proving the idea that once privacy falls onto the feet of Mrs Brown, it works in inverse relationship: the wider the world of Najib is prised opened, the greater is Clare’s success in violating the man’s closet.

But for all that to work, really work, Clare needs a relentless stream of digital information coming into her Apple laptop. Picture then a woman glued to her computer screen night and day waiting, under her new found freedom, to wake up the world to its own perils. It is another contradiction but, for her, there is simply no other better sustenance, pathetic as it appears.

Clare on the Net is like a girl play-dressing Barbie dolls on an App or a boy 24/7 hooked on Internet games. She would be too narcissistic (recall that God is her) to recognize her own failings and mistakes or simply to step back and be restrained about it all. That is, What if she is wrong? Wrong about Najib, about Malaysia, about its institutions. Perhaps, just perhaps, there is another explanation for those secretive, anti-private papers on which she overdoses herself. Truth, after all, is not necessarily a matter of pure numerical values.

But her morality permits nothing of the sort.

Even if she does come round to it, Clare, by which time, would have moved on, to another morality march, another conquest, other souls to save. Her sense of reality is too drugged by her goodness to be disentangled from it. More likely she would shrug it off her shoulders as an addition to life’s experiences: ‘Too bad, it happened to some Alis. I was only trying to do good‘.

With Clare, as with PAS mufti and imam towel heads, regret is a passivity. And, whether it is with Jesus or Mahathir or Mahathir’s Allah, God is never, never, never, never, never known to have expressed a regret; they are un-human after all.

Of course, now with 130K ringgit in her pockets, Clare could say, Malaysia invited her in as if she needed an invitation. White people, westerners, have never bothered to ask permission when they came to Malacca, Hong Kong or China. They don’t need an invitation. People like Clare see it as an inevitability, in political terms today, their ‘right’, because the message from her god is, ‘Go forth and multiply’.

Multiply she did. In Malaysia multiplying was easier than in any other country because its fields were long ago tilled with Anglophile souls, from Kit Siang to Hannah, from Mahathir to Zaid.

What to do?

Perhaps we should treat Clare and her ‘stories’ as just that, a whole funfair of existential provocations, in which, under a tent, there is a merry-go-round that you jump on and off, just for the hack of it. In such a Clare-induced world, everybody can be anybody, riding a horse one minute, unicorn the next, swinging here and there. Or, picture yourself inside a hall of mirrors then treat this Clare-induced reality as no big deal. That is, her stories are just a contortionist idea and when you’re done with the fun, we can say, that’s not us. Or, alternatively, see Clare as the clown in the ring. Her spectacle has to end some time when not soon so that we, the spectators, are bound to return to our lives, as banal as it is challenging but more real then the image of her wedded to a computer as she is driven in her illusion of saving the world.

Power though is on her side — the freedom of the Internet, so they say — and also because she alone defines morality. But we have this other source of power: it is the realization that, in the end, she will amount to nothing because, really, think about it, what could be more frivolous than a clown running a dog and pony show? It is, to say the least, unreal; it’s just a game.


Miranda Kerr

Miranda Kerr: In Clare’s society and in her value system, such a white woman fucked by a Chinaman would be considered sacrilegious not too long ago. Not true? Read it in Steinbeck. Sumisha Naidu, Anglophile at Channel News Asia, thinks so too: it would be ‘obscene’, as obscene as Watsons is obscene, she’d say.


Of course, a character such as Seet Li Lin, one of the second-tier 1MDB Singaporean operatives, is a motherfucker and, no thanks to Clare for pointing it out. Why? Because and note this: he, like Jho Low, was educated out of Clare’s value system and in her white culture, speaking like her and thinking in terms of ‘gaming’ the system (Li’s word). That man, also like Jho Low, even manages to toss around his name so badly you have to wonder which of the three words actually belongs to his family. While Clare is her own god, Li is his own father, and each of who is their own morality, going by their own rules. It’s freedom, you see.

Clare sits on Li’s flip side of the same White society coin, he to ‘game’ the system in one direction and Clare comes from the opposite side to expose it. In this collision, her ‘stories’ are peppered and laced with the same self-righteous morality (‘damning, eye-wateringly, extravagant, debauchery’) as Li’s reference to his self-centered individuality. As if that isn’t enough, Clare pitches her language to one of racial ridicule (‘Miranda’s pudgy admirer; the brass-necked, bumbling Alis’).

The problem always lay with the colored, not the Whites. So, where Miranda was concerned, Clare must have thought: How could a pretty White girl like her end up with such a fat, ugly Chinaman with an unpronounceable name. Such a racial thought cannot be a surprise: Sumisha Naidu, Indian paragon of White anti-racism and tilled in the grounds of Clare’s morality, made the exact same racist remark of Jho Low, asking the question not of him but her instead. How could Miranda…! But it isn’t a question.

As it was with Watsons against who Sumisha had railed against for racism all because the company wishes to sell some skin whitening gel that Indian girls wanted for beauty’s sake, Jho Low is also a marked man. Sumi, like Hanah Yeoh, like Clare, know how to veil their racism: when it is politically correct to do so.

There is no implying here that Clare’s so-called ‘stories’ served no political or legal purpose. But, given her racism (Comical Alis, Jho Low and Miranda) then her intent, purpose, and motives fall into question. Fundamental to which is her ethical standards: Since when has she been the benchmark of good conduct made applicable to all and sundry?

Clare the dubious narrator is made the more self-evident when she hides her own life in the shadows of the banner called Sarawak Report. Like the infamous Assange, hiding behind WikiLeaks, she has promoted herself as indispensable to her ’cause’ (whatever that is) so that, in the process, the image that emerges is a Clare Rewcastle-Brown as narcissistic as she is unreliable. For one thing, they do the same same western-styled public relations that they routinely condemn.

In less flattering terms, she is a hypocrite. And, like the early Scottish arrivals who, unemployed and unemployable at home, would enter Malaysia and find, to their surprise, that in this land they would be treated like some well-heeled half-icon, half-god. After which they would justify their presence to say they were building up the land, developing it for the good of tree-dwelling idiots, those Comical Alis.

Two hundred years on, Clare showed she still had learned nothing, not the history and not the people she today feigns to serve, and she is still as bigoted as she is racist, and never pausing to drive herself into the local consciousness. She even considers Malaysia her entitlement.

Little does she know that if she was going to call Malays names, it would give her away as the penultimate condescending bitch that she is. Who does she think she is? Did she not know that only the Chinese (and Indians) are entitled to call Malays names because this is our fight, not hers, and the Malays are our compatriots when not family. Clare ridicules the Malays, Clare answers to us.

White people and their stories matter little to us, and that we have had enough of their intrusions, their hypocrisy, their god, their morality, their irrationality.



Seet Li Lin (right) with Riza Aziz: one faces possible jail while the other has so far escaped public scrutiny.

Both men are as different as chalk and cheese, birthed in different societies then grew up in separate countries. So what brings them together? It can’t be just money. But soccer? Try, however, imagining something else, something deeper.


Neither Clare nor her White society has the monopoly on what is justice and fairness, or in differentiating frugality from accountability. Her notions of evil and good in conflict are also not ours. Such differences in our worldviews are for good reasons and, to see why, start with a simple question: by what standards does Clare imposes her morality on ours? Or, whose standards?

We believe our standards are rational, but not hers. And because values are the result of a rational endeavor then they can’t be universal either. And without this universality, our values are not White values; and, indeed, those that are held by Clare and propagated by her god are complete nut jobs.

Seeing as we are different, where then is Clare’s moral authority to decide if the squandering of 1MDB money is immoral for having spent on, she says, ‘debauchery’? If there is a failing in 1MDB, it would be our failure, by our standards, not hers.

Now, should the day happen we shoot Jho Low in the head we have no doubt she will flip around, do a somersault and scream human rights.

Clare, you are truly fucked up; so leave us alone, go back to school and get a real education. But then, of course, why should you listen to us? You are the superior one, the Laojie, after all, and in your eyes we are, if not Ching Chong Chinaman, just a bunch of Comical Alis deserving only of your contempt and derision. Besides, being superior, you believe, by telling us how to act, you are here to save us from ourselves.


Three Inches of Heaven 三寸天堂



青青子衿、悠悠我心 qing qing my collar qing

What we did to a 2,500-year-old poem


China in tumult some 2,500-old years ago, there were as many as 14 self-ruling states (map above) before these were whittled down to five then three and leaving finally the Qin dynasty. This era, known as the Warring States, was also one of the most immensely productive, spawning the works of Confucius, Laozi, Sima Qian, printing, metallurgy (weaponry) and agricultural innovations (canals and systematic irrigation). Thrown into this range were lots of poetry and, thanks to numerous historians, they have been handed down to us.

These poems, even in their present-day translations, read remarkably modern-day. One of which that endured is simply known as, innocent enough, The Collar 子衿, today anthologized in the 诗经 shijing, or The Book of Songs, one of the five most important classics surviving from that era.

The actual poet is still a mystery. What we know is that the poem came from the State of Zheng. That it endured is owed to its terseness, down-to-earth simplicity, its repetitive, sing-song quality and especially its theme, the longing for the return of one’s love. It meant that the poet is very likely a woman, educated, of course, and perhaps the daughter of a high ranking official employed in the palace because the lines mentioned of her waiting at the gate walls looking out.

In Beijing today, artistes and film directors have taken the same poem and, without altering a word, staged the poetry into a dance and theater, with the entire enterprise resting solely on its three couplets. Here it is below, and there is nothing like this in the western literary world or its theater (watch on full screen):



The poem’s title in Chinese is, 诗经·国风·郑风·《子衿》, in translation ‘Shijing, National style of the State of Zheng, The Collar.’ This is not as long as you think.

Because China is a warehouse of ancient literary works, these have to be categorized. Thus, for this particular poem it is identified first by its published source, that is, the 诗经 shijing, or The Book of Odes, also called Book of Poetry or Songs. This published source-name is followed by the stylistic origin of the work, in this case, the National style of the State of Zheng or 国风·郑风. Finally, the poem title itself, The Collar 子衿 zijin.

The lines, in traditional form and its pinyin version, read (source is here):

青青子衿、悠悠我心。 qīng qīng zǐ jīng,yōu yōu wǒ xīn
縱我不往、子寧不嗣音。 zòng wǒ bù wǎng,zǐ nìng bú sì yīn

青青子佩、悠悠我思。 qīng qīng zǐ peì, yōu yōu wǒ sī
縱我不往、子寧不來。zòng wǒ bù wǎng, zǐ nìng bù lái

挑兮達兮、在城闕兮。 tiǎo xī dá xī, zài chéng què xī
一日不見、如三月兮。 yí rì bú jiàn, rú sān yuè xī

In translation (by shuzheng):

qing qing my collar qing, echo echo my heart throbs.
if I go not to you, might you not at least send me word?

qing qing your pendant qing, echo echo my mind rings.
if I go not to you, might you not at least come to me?

standing at the gate tower I look out into the distance.
one day not seeing you seems now like three months long.

Because hanzi is monosyllable, its poems are best sung, as much as they ought to be read aloud. This practice is still used today in the Chinese schools in Malaysia where bigoted Anglophiles (Khoo Kay Peng, Lisa Ng) and ignorant Malays, seeing and hearing it, scorn at the recitation as rote-learning. But, the poem, delivered in this way, produces a deep sense of intense longing as if the poet, pleading to her love with her life and on her knees, finds her personal loss quite unendurable.

The title itself is very queer and so is the first line, 青青子佩、悠悠我思 qing qing my collar qing. This mystery is lifted once you think about it: What hangs round a neck collar and makes a chiming sound?

This object, a pendant, which had left a deep mark and triggered the sorrow, might have been the only possession he had left with her before leaving. But, why pendant? One guess is this: the man is probably a soldier, an army officer who must leave behind his civilian ornaments before going to war. That, or they were just married or engaged.

Did he return? There is no knowing because no other poem from the poet came down to us. Furthermore, the State of Zheng, today Henan and surrounding parts, was eventually overtaken and seized by Zhou.

Below is an upbeat version without any attempt to convey the emotion in the poem.



Artifacts developed during the Warring States


Left side are bamboo strips, resident today in a Shanghai museum, that were used during the Warring States period. The right side is the rendering in the modern hanzi written form.


On display in China: model of the recoiling trebuchet, precursor to today’s artillery. Below, currencies and sword.



Painting on lacquer ware from the State of Chu (704–223 BC). Note that 4-color printings were already available then.


Garment ornament made from carved jade. Origin of state unknown. The above poem zijin was referring to one of these sorts of ornament.


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The Confucianist Lee Hsien Loong

Few things irk the Chinese more than to see family matters laundered in public, given especially a family in public office. Anglophiles have no problem with that — they don’t know what’s propriety — hence Lee Hsein Loong’s brother and sister.

Properly raised, no Chinese would read into the clip, above, that Lee is a Chinese or that he is a famous Chinese PM or a PM with a hidden agenda, to save his political life. They see, on the basis of his arguments, tone and demeanor — above all, his apology and how he intends to remedy the damage — a good man instead, a man of virtue, properly raised. He was especially fair to himself.

But, what does Mahathir Mohamad see and hear? Why does he hate Singapore — that is, the Chinese — so much? What cause have we, the Chinese, given him to spit at us, even today? With Mahathir’s way, the Umno Malay way, the result is this.

Firdaus Abdullah at A Tale of Two Prime Ministers has rightly raised the pertinent points comparing Lee and Najib Razak. And not because one is Chinese, the other Malay, which bigoted racists like Ahi Attan and Annie of the Valley are wont to do, without batting an eye. This is, as it should be, the way to inspire true loyalty, the way to inspire confidence, the way to conduct relations, Malays among themselves and between Malays and Chinese: sincerity, introspection and virtue.

The Analects: 子曰。爲政以德、譬如北辰居其所而衆星共之。 [In transl.] The Master said: “If you govern with the power of your virtue, you will be like the North Star. It just stays in its place while all the other stars position themselves around it.”

[Muller’s comment] This is the Analects’ first statement on government. Scholars of Chinese thought have commonly placed great emphasis on a supposed radical distinction between Confucian “authoritative” government and Daoist “laissez-faire” government. But numerous Confucian passages such as this which suggest of the ruler’s governance by a mere attunement with an inner principle of goodness, without unnecessary external action, quite like the Daoist wu-wei are far more numerous than has been noted. This is one good reason for us to be careful when making the commonplace Confucian/Daoist generalizations without qualification.

Analects again: 有子曰。信近於義、言可復也。恭近於禮、遠恥辱也。因不失其親、亦可宗也。[In transl.] You Zi said: “When your own trustworthiness is guided by fairness, your words can be followed. When your show of respect is guided by propriety, you will be far from shame and disgrace. If you have genuine affection within your family, you can become an ancestor.”

[Muller’s comment] Fairness is one way of rendering of the Chinese yi 義, which we also translate in this text as Justice, according to the context. Although not quite as essential a concept as ren 仁, it is a strongly internalized human capacity. Being attuned to fairness allows people to do the proper thing in the proper situation, to give each person, place and thing its proper due. In the Analects and other Confucian texts, 義 has the specific connotations of fairness, or justice delivered in a situation when a person is in a position of power or authority. Thus, one of the greatest qualities to be possessed by teacher, a supervisor, a judge, a company owner, or the leader of any social circle is that of fairness, or justice, in treating those over whom he or she has power or influence.


Updated with Zainuddin Maidin

Zam: You tahu saya siapa?

Sure we tau, you’re some motherfucking Malaiyoo prick from Mahathir.


Why are you dragging PM Lee into your Malaiyoo affairs, Zam? So, what slap? Your character, indeed your entire life, is as vile and as base — and stupid — as it gets with an Umno Malaiyoo. While praying to your Allah, go fuck your mother, Zam. Especially if she’s dead. And if you aren’t satiated, fuck your father too.

Keep doing this Zam, we’ll know what we should do. Motherfucker.




China’s Revival (not the Spratlys)

In the following three video clips, China’s women have done it again, taking to a new high point in Chinese performing arts: dance + painting + music + poetry + theater + history

星月神話 Myth of the Constellation

(Play it on full screen.)




Where will you be the next millennium?
Beside you, will all be the same.
Our story is not the most beautiful
but, in this way, how hard it is to forget

If at the time we were altogether brave
would not the outcome be different,
would you not be chatting away,
or bury in your dream, your silence…


Jian dressed for rehearsal…

纵我不往,子宁不来? Even if I did not go to you, might you not come to me? / At the gate tower I look out anxious into the distance / Days are gone for so long without you beside me… How, for you, shall I and Motherland compete…


An Afterword

穿越時空 錯相逢
千年情緣 夢醒空
畫中踏情 夕陽紅
來世再見 已千年

It might be in time, a chance meeting be a mistake,
as if waking from a dream, one millennium away.
As if once stamped on canvas, a red sunset
is goodbye till we’d meet the next millennium, life.




[Video note: What you see isn’t a stage set, but on location in the old imperial palace grounds, Beijing. Play on full screen.]

青青子衿,悠悠我心 纵我不往,子宁不嗣音 青青子佩,悠悠我思 纵我不往,子宁不来 挑兮达兮,在城阙兮 一日不见,如三月兮。


Han Rejuvenation

Chinese etiquette and ritual culture, pivoted on tradition, beauty, arts, a value system and history:

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