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You think Pakatan voters are the only stupid ones who got screwed and suckered, listen to this…

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歌唱祖国 Ode to the Motherland.

The music after the National Anthem is called 歌唱祖国 or Ode to the Motherland.

Ignore the written comments by the white man, a racist motherfucker. But, that was my motherland, 70, 80 years ago, in living memory, the time of my grandparents and before them their parents. We have come this far, there’s no turning back.

They say, beware China, we’re out to conquer the world. That’s an idea. Why not? Once we have done that, we’ll make the great grandchildren of the Mahathirs, the Mohamad Raficks, and the Rais Hussins eat our shit, befitting their barbarian, kampung status.

Mahathir underestimates the intense passion we have for our country and our government. So he threatens to interfere in Xinjiang, in our country, to undermine our sovereignty and we’ll what… double down and beg? He can cancel another 1,000 ECRLs but we will pulverize Malaysia, turn it into ash before he can finish saying Inshallah.

Comrade Wen Jiabao was right:

“Anying, my compatriot. Many seasons have come to past. I am here to see you on behalf of the Chinese people. China today has prevailed and is stronger. Our people have endured. Rest in peace.”

Our people have not died in vain. And we have not forgotten. This is what China’s national day, Oct. 1, is about.

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Today is also a special day for her… 我的心爱

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This last one is for Helen Aku Cina Ang and her Brett Kavanaugh

People like Kadir Jasin likes to think that, in Malaysia, Mahathir being some top dog would also be a straight talking shining star outside this mosquito dump. In the UN that fucking mamak is nowhere near as bright as that white guy above.

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The Master Bedroom Salesman Who Knocked…

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https://i1.wp.com/www.federal-furniture.com/images/board_director_04a.jpg Datuk Choy Wai Ceong
waiceong.choy@masteron.com.my
20.177.131.18
Hi…I hv been reading your blog wit interest. I am not a politician but a businessman.

Is there a way we can exchange views ?

:)

Sent from my Samsung Galaxy smartphone.

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“Hiya”, My name is Latuk Choy

Day One

I m not chinese educated but would like very much to understand the chinese world view better that i do now…prehaps you can assist ..

Day Two

My professional life was in selling furniture world wide for 10 years whereby I travelled to many many parts of the world and another 20+ years in the Malaysian property market.

Day Three

We hv thought of investing in china and now the main criteria for us in site assessment will be the ” wen hua” in the Chinese sense of each locale.. Shanghai / Shenzhen /Dongguan ..are all obvious choices….whereas the boondocks such as Hefei /Anhui… Chengdu or even /Fuzhou…to avoid…
To use a western mindset’s commentary of these places will be to label them as backward or uncivilised….haha

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Haha, indeed. ‘Backward’ and ‘uncivilised’?

Boondocks like the Asal people in Kelantan and Pahang and Johor and Sarawak? Why, they are expendable if you needed their land for chairs and your Master beds.

These are the Temiars and the land is theirs. But Malays grabbed it, with lots of help from the English, simply by putting words to paper — it is ‘law’, they say — then label the law ‘Federal Constitution’ (all in capitals) and through which Malays call themselves bumis. Entire peoples have been defrauded in this way.

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Want to come to China for the same, the land? Pick your site, Latuk. We’ll be waiting…, and it won’t be just blockades, unlike the Temiars who have nothing and so are pushed around.

Go plunder elsewhere, Latuk. Try Taiwan. They sell a lot chairs.

Or, perhaps you’d think that Mahathir can connect you in China? Surely, you know nothing, understand nothing, and see nothing. Balik kampung. Go back to your boondocks PJ, boy. At age 50 plus, you learned nothing. And, if you have nothing else better to do with papa’s money, go suck a lollipop. Tons of it.

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I cry over my husband, whose head is lost

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Anglophiles, like the Latuk Banana above, have no identity — imagining themselves to be like the butler Stevens in Ishiguro’s ‘The Remains of the Day‘, people who can’t even fake their identities well enough. They feed off what they read and they read only in the English, in the Latuk’s case, English law. Or, Lady Chatterley’s Lover in some La Salle school. After which, they grow incapable of being straight.

As Ketuanan Malaiyoo would cripple the Malays, so English would cripple the rest. You see the consequences daily in Mahathir or the DAP, most recently from Anthony ‘Walk-the-Talk‘ Loke who brags about his conduct, humiliating another man, publicly, openly, while his boss in Beijing goes on yada, yada about ‘Asian values’. (And the rest of Malaysiakini cheers Walk-the-Talk Loke: What a fine, upright Christian, they say.)

Butler Stevens will be nothing without those (on sale) country mansions and an English class system, all the external props. Which is just as well. The Latuk is nothing without father’s money, some stupid Malay name titles, and, especially, his English. He will be just a “stump”.

Here is this comment about an identical situation a few oceans away, in Uganda, not surprisingly:

I’ve always loved this brilliant evocation of the life of Lawino (above, in Song of Lawino by Okot p’Bitek), a traditional Acholi woman in Uganda, struggling to make sense of the world of her husband, Ocol, alienated by his colonial education, and infatuated with a “new woman,” who, like him, has a life shaped by modern literacy.

Listen, my clansmen,
I cry over my husband
Whose head is lost.
Ocol has lost his head
In the forest of books.

And the reading
Has killed my man,
In the ways of his people
He has become
A stump.

Lawino laments her husband’s shift to Western values, becoming a Christian, getting a Western education at Makerere University, changing his name, trading in the traditional sense of time (he now schedules his life according to a grandfather clock whose ”large single testicle / Dangles below”) and reading books instead of listening to stories. She is embedded in the ways he now considers backward. Okot p’Bitek’s book-length poem captures a moment when a husband’s focus on reinventing his social identity denies his first wife’s individuality, and so he moves on.

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I Cried in the Offices of Playboy

Reproduced from Buzzfeed

By Ling Ma

…I’ve held other jobs, worse jobs. The worst job was at a firm where I was routinely fat-shamed for my lunch options by a colleague. What are you, a Chinese mother? was a thought that I had, but kept to myself, so that I could eat my chicken pad thai in peace. Another time, I ended up helping a supervisor create a Match.com profile for herself. How I ended up working with said supervisor on her online dating persona so late at night, well past office hours, probably had to do with being complimented: “But you’re so good with words.” The ability to speak up for myself, to demarcate my time, my labor, my skills as my own, eluded me. It took me years to understand that the responsibility of enforcing professional boundaries often falls to the less powerful party. It’s not in the interest of the powerful to adhere to those boundaries. As almost anyone who has worked in an office knows: People can be awful and they can use their power, however limited, to belittle or pressure others in subtle or not-so-subtle ways that are psychically bruising but technically not illegal.

What I’m trying to say is: The crying at work was not about the work. The source of stress is never the specific litany of tasks and duties one is paid to do. The work, I could control. But I couldn’t control the bullying campaign by an older superior, who seemed to target me and another coworker on staff. Though my coworker and I had both devised ways to avoid the staffer beyond professional interactions (I had taken to strategically wearing headphones), there was something about the daily drip of passive-aggressive jabs, the unnecessarily personal remarks, the pointed, belittling questions interrupting our workflow — all under the thin guise of professionalism — that just added up for me that day.

My father has sustained a long and fruitful career in a different field. Once, he was selected as a featured employee for the company newsletter. Ostensibly as a way for employees to get to know one another, the selected employee submits to a questionnaire, published alongside their picture. One of the questions: How would you like to be remembered? To which he responded: I would like to be forgotten.

The answer raised some eyebrows at the company, and my mother would periodically tease him for it. The curtness of his response gave the misleading impression that he didn’t, in fact, enjoy his job or derive satisfaction from his career. But what my father meant was that the work self and the private self are two different things. And that he didn’t owe the company his private self, even for something as innocuous as a corporate newsletter.

I was born in China during the 1980s. In every family, the Cultural Revolution casts a heavy shadow. I won’t go into the particulars of my family history — of who was publicly castigated, who was sent away to labor camps, who was separated from their families — in part because I understand the stories only piecemeal, in offhand references, through secondhand sources. They’re a part of family history that no one wants to fully acknowledge.

What I will say is that, for years, between the ages of 3 and 5, my grandmother would put me to bed with stories of children being abducted or lost or killed. Because my life was safe and boring at the time, I relished these tales of peril, and incessantly asked for more of them, in the way that someone might binge on Law and Order episodes.

A year after I unceremoniously cried at work, Playboy Enterprises closed the Chicago office, consolidating it with its office in LA, known as Playboy West. The office closing did not come as a surprise. For several months, rumors had been circulating. Employee benefit plans had been cut. The employees on the magazine staff braced themselves. We knew that the magazine was not the most lucrative division of the company. Ultimately, there were mass layoffs of employees across most divisions, some of whom had been with the company for decades and were on the cusp of retirement. (A longtime employee, in fact, sued the company for wrongful termination, heralding a landmark payout.)

My own layoff happened like this: One afternoon, Tom tapped the back of my chair and asked me to come with him. I knew what was coming, as I followed him — his stiff walk — down the halls. All day, each employee had been called individually to the office of the creative director, who either offered them a position in the LA office, or laid them off.

In the creative director’s wide, sweeping office, I sat down at the table, along with other company representatives. The creative director, sweat stains on his shirt, seemed shaken by having delivered news to so many employees already. He stumbled over his words, seemingly reciting a script as he faced me, looking at my face but not quite seeing me. The script didn’t include the words “lay off” or “terminated,” but the message was conveyed.

In retrospect, the stories served as vehicles to impart my grandmother’s lessons. The children often ended up in dangerous scenarios due to the same set of follies: They were too adventurous, or too overzealous, or too curious. A bored child, running off from his parents at the street market, ends up getting kidnapped and sent to a labor camp in the icy purgatory of Siberia, living off patchy tundra grass. The survivors in these stories were the ones who learned how to be obedient and to negotiate their own releases by subjugating their wills and impulses with apparent cooperation. The takeaway: In order to survive, one must hide the self.

I don’t know how long I have carried this understanding, but it has been there for all of my life: The self can be compressed. The self is infinitely divisible. As in Zeno’s paradox, if the self is cut down and continually halved into smaller pieces for eternity, it can still exist. You may act like a completely different person — ingratiating yourself to higher powers, publicly holding political views you don’t believe in; in other words, completely subjugated to the system around you — but the self remains. You can be a feminist and still work at Playboy. You can object to the objectification of women but still attend employee parties staffed by lingerie models passing out Playboy Energy Drinks. You can dislike working with certain difficult coworkers, but still wear Nice Face around them. You can be a professional at work, but still retain your personhood.

Is this a depressing outlook or an inspiring one? Are you a hypocrite or are you a survivor?

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Ling Ma is the author of the novel SEVERANCE just out.

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Stories by Heathens

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Hana, above, with Grandma, below.

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From New York, Brooklyn: On why eating is better than love, and how Grandma’s unspoken love surpasses God’s. Excerpted from Like You Know Your Own Bones by Crystal Hana Kim. Her new book, If You Leave Me. It’s about Grandma.

EAT, EAT, EAT

When I was almost two years old, my grandmother flew from Hongcheon, South Korea, to Flushing, Queens, to take care of me. For a few years, while my parents worked, I spent my hours with Halmuni. I do not remember how we colored our days, but I press my thumb onto the photographs of that time. I smudge their borders and try to return to a forgotten past. …

I live in Brooklyn now, and Halmuni lives 6,853 miles away. We text in Korean, and she sends me selfies. A recent one: she wears sunglasses, a camel coat, and impeccable orange-red lipstick. The picture is ostensibly to show me that she loves the scarf I sent her, but I think she is also lonely. She has been divorced for many years, her friends are dying (as she often reminds me), and though she has five daughters, seven grandchildren, and one great-granddaughter, we are all busy with our own lives. As we text, Halmuni tells me about walking her dog around the neighborhood fields, and I tell her what I am writing these days.

She always begins with: “Have you eaten?”

She always ends with the same reminder: “Eat well.”

“Don’t forget to eat, eat, eat.” …

My grandmother was fourteen when the Korean War began. She and her mother, like millions of others living in both halves of Korea, fled to Busan. Bewildered at the sudden onset of war, civilians streamed south. Their belongings were hoisted onto A-frame carriers and bundled into blankets. They were refugees in their own country. Halmuni tells me of the dead bodies on the roadsides, their particular indescribable multilayered stench. When I flinch, she shifts to blander details. She recalls packing squash gourds, a blanket, a pot of beans and rice.

“What did you do when the food ran out?” I ask.

“We’d eat anything we could find,” she says. “We peeled the bark from trees, collected the sap, and cooked that. We picked potato vines, roots.”

“How did you know what was safe to eat?”

“I grew up watching birds, seeing what they ate, what made them die and what let them live.” She clucks. “When you grow up in the country, you know what’s edible like you know your own bones.”

I nod, but I don’t know my own bones. I don’t even know what it would mean. …

When she texts me, “My darling Hana, how are you? I’m worried you and Eric are not eating well,” I do not tell her what I have learned from the scientists about memory, history, blood. I reply with: “We are fine!” I send her a picture from a few days before. “It’s snowing here. Have you been celebrating the impeachment?” I expect her to send me something cheerful back. Instead, she responds with: “You both look like you lost weight. What are you eating?”

“I made miyeokguk for our birthdays,” I respond.

“Then why do you look so thin?”

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From New York, Shanghai: On ‘Why We Chinese Never Say, I Love You‘. By Lucy Tan, above. Reproduced from LitHub. Her book just released, What We Were Promised. Also see Zhang Ailing’s 愛 Love, farther below.

WHY WE NEVER SAY, I LOVE YOU

The first fiction I ever read in Chinese was a short story by Eileen Chang, titled simply, “Love.” I was in college at the time, and my Chinese language teacher had handed it to out to the class. After I finished reading it, I quietly began to cry.

I can’t tell this story without telling you what the language meant to me then. My parents are Chinese-American immigrants, and the first language I learned was Chinese. I spoke it almost exclusively until the very first day of pre-school, when I learned the sentence, “Can I have some juice?” From then on, I spoke in full English sentences. Chinese became the language I only spoke when compelled—with my family, who always spoke Chinese in the house, or when I was forced to practice it at Chinese school on the weekends. I struggled against it, partly because I didn’t possess the full range of vocabulary through which to express myself, and partly because it was a language in which I couldn’t address my emotions.

My parents did not like emotional conversations. They did not say I love you. On parents’ visiting day at school, other kids’ parents left them notes that said “We’re proud of you!” My note said, “We hope you will continue to improve this year. Please read books other than the series, The Baby-Sitters Club.” The closest they had come to addressing the issue of emotion were the times they asked me, “Why are you crying?” By which they meant, Stop crying. And so I tried never to cry in front of them. I held my tears through dinner. I cried only alone, in my room, or on the phone with friends. It seemed to me that the heart was a dangerous territory for Chinese and so I kept the two apart. It was in English that said I love you to a boy for the first time, English in which I cursed aloud. In books written in English, the intricacies of feeling and mysteries of human existence were explored. It was in the love of this language that, early on, I found the determination to become a writer.

But sitting there in the classroom as a college freshman, staring at those three-hundred-some words that made up the Eileen Chang short story, everything I knew was torn apart. No story written in English had ever made me feel what this story made me felt. It was the most profound reading experience I’d had with short fiction, and the story had been written in Chinese. It was as though the two worlds I was used to traveling between had suddenly collided.

The story “Love” is seemingly simple. It’s about a young woman who falls in love with a neighborhood young man after they meet briefly, beneath a peach tree. Years later, after she’s lived a life of misfortune, she remembers this meeting with him and remarks upon the gifts of time, coincidence, and life.

You meet the one you meet amongst thousands and tens of thousands of people, amidst thousands and tens of thousands of years, in the boundless wilderness of time, not a step sooner, not a step later. You chance upon each other, not saying much, only asking softly, “Oh, you are here, also?” “Love,” by Zhang Ailing, translated by Qiaomei Tang

What was striking to me about this story was the things that aren’t said. The years in which the young woman is sold as a concubine hovers around the edges of the story, out of focus, but dark enough to illuminate the shining moment in her life that’s described. So much is implied by the words, “Time passed.” Nothing more is needed. For all I loved about the power of language to name what can’t be put into words, this—not naming it—had equal power.

Subtle, too, are the narrative shifts in this piece. We think we are being told a story by a narrator, until we arrive at the phrase “She remembers…” Suddenly, we jump forward in time, where the narrative has been taken over by the young woman, who is now an old woman, looking back on her life, knowing what she has already lost. And what of the phrase, “She often speaks of that young man”? To whom is she speaking, we wonder? What solace, what comfort has she found in her old age? Chang is a master of suggestion. Reading this story taught me that in fiction it’s possible for some of the most poignant moments to linger out of sight. Because, the story seems to say, the hard parts are beside the point. Like a dart, piercing through the thinness of all the years of this woman’s life, is this single encounter: a meeting with a man beneath a peach tree. As readers, we come away reminded that it is rare moments of love and light that we should let define our lives and give our existence focus. How compassionately Chang renders this story. And yet, what a cruel story it is.

For a week, I walked around with “Love” tucked into my class notebooks, switching it from one to the other as I switched classes. The text took up barely half a page. I remember being surprised by that fact each time I looked at it. I couldn’t stop thinking about the young woman in the story and the life she’d left. I couldn’t stop hearing that refrain, “thousands and ten thousands of people, amidst thousands and ten thousands of years.” I had an urge to call my mother, who lived in China at the time. I wanted to tell her that I felt closer to her somehow, not because the story itself had anything to do with her, but because for the first time, I felt moved by Chinese. I felt understood by this story.

Of course, I didn’t do it. My parents and I don’t use language in that way. To this day, I still have never said the words I love you to them in Chinese.

Years later, in writing my first novel, I found myself telling my own love story. What We Were Promised is about many different kinds of love—family love, lost love, stale love, and new love. My characters are Chinese and Chinese-American, and they mostly speak Chinese. One of my early readers made an observation that stuck with me: “They so rarely tell each other what they’re feeling!” It occurred to me that I was writing the kind of dialogue I grew up hearing, where love is tacitly understood. Love settles into the cracks of daily existence, paved over by mundanity. “Wear a coat,” my mother would tell me. “Eat more meat.” “Read different books.” I love you. I love you. I love you. What I’ve learned after twenty-some years of speaking both languages is that it’s very American to say things aloud. And it’s very Chinese to feel them quietly.

“Oh, you are here also,” the young man says to the young woman. In other words: I love you. And yet I love you would have cheapened things. By acknowledging the limitations of language, by letting everything else do the telling, we are treated to the depths of one human life. Maybe it was never that my parents were unwilling to say I love you. Maybe they sensed that the phrase itself was never enough.

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 https://i0.wp.com/www.buenosairesreview.org/wp-content/uploads/zhang-ailing-photo-150x150.jpgBy Zhang Ailing (1920 –1995)

這是真的。

有個村莊的小康之家的女孩子,生得美,有許多人來做媒,但都沒有說成。那年她不過十五六歲吧,是春天的晚上,她立在後門口,手扶著桃樹。她記得她穿的是一件月白的衫子。對門住的年輕人同她見過面,可是從來沒有打過招呼的,他走了過來,離得不遠,站定了,輕輕的說了一聲:“噢,你也在這裡嗎?”她沒有說什麼,他也沒有再說什麼,站了一會,各自走開了。

就這樣就完了。

後來這女子被親眷拐子賣到他鄉外縣去作妾,又幾次三番地被轉賣,經過無數的驚險的風波,老了的時候她還記得從前那一回事,常常說起,在那春天的晚上,在後門口的桃樹下,那年輕人。

於千萬人之中遇見你所遇見的人,於千萬年之中,時間的無涯的荒野裡,沒有早一步,也沒有晚一步,剛巧趕上了,那也沒有別的話可說,惟有輕輕的問一聲:“噢,你也在這裡嗎?”

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The rest…

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Alannah. Troll. Stalker. Insane

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Travails of the Christian Alannah Cheah

Alannah Cheah (above & below): interior design diploma, Harapan, Anglophile, Christian, stupid and insane. Behind the smiley face is Christian schizophrenia: hearing voices, delusional, confused thoughts, believing in some desert voodoo, following after a mad religion with an equally mad god, Alannah herself stuck in a menial job, drying up, plagued by ‘various health conditions’ (see her confession below). Predictably, she thinks great of seeing a shrink.

Wonder when she will snap — like the ISIS fellas — shrink or no shrink, Jesus or no Jesus.

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Annie! Help!

Dear Annie,

I kid you not. Over this post written more than a year ago, I am being stalked by a Harapan woman, Anglophile and Christian to boot (above). And she is actually insane, by her own confession (below), with a history of mental illnesses.

I can’t shake her off; and she won’t leave me alone. What shall I do, Annie?

Tell her I already have a girlfriend and we are getting married? Or suggests she go work in Geylang if she needs a prick badly 24/7? Could you offer some of your fans — for her, I mean, as a national service? They could go see her, altogether, mob-style. Or should I go to the Police? Or look up DAP and Joseph Lim Guan Eng? I tried praying to Jesus, but God is dead, is of no help, not even speaking up, whether in the Chinese language I best understand or in the English.

Here’s an idea: on your next Singapore trip, could you pay her a visit, better yet with your boyfriend. (Address in yesterday’s post.) Remember to wear your black bike wind-jacket, and looking like this:

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Alannah Cheah
plus.google.com/106546294076948158049x
alannah.cheah@gmail.com
118.200.229.83

I don’t understand why would you call it an insult? I have been advised to see a psychiatrist (which I almost did) due to sleep orders caused by various health conditions and I never consider a suggestion like this to be an insult. I only consider it as a good intention.

By the way, obviously I am not as intelligent as you are as I am not able to create my own web page.

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Read her stalk-message to me (above). There are more, but I won’t post them. In it, see her madness and stupidity. They always go together, don’t they? After all this, do you think she will see a shrink, as ‘advised’, ‘due to sleep orders’ (sic), a shrink with whom she conflates a third-party ‘intention’ with the diagnosis of her insanity. To her, intelligence = creating a web page. Can you ask for anyone more stupid?

I tell you, Annie: like the rest of Harapan and its DAP Christians, she needs to be saved; you know, like ‘Save Malaysia‘. Alannah’s mental deficiency raises a question: Has Harapan been voted in and put into power in a country, Malaysia, where one half is mad and stupid to boot?

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Postscript Note to Alannah the Mad

In our traditional (Daoist) Chinese way of thinking as well as in our lives, we never, never, never look at things nor do we live and divide it into dichotomous categories or classes: failure and success, rich and poor, good and bad, godly and evil, sane and insane, and so on. There are many reasons for our way of thinking and why we don’t teach such, and we shall leave it at that.

This is not so in Western teachings and in the Anglophone life: the world is a design, not a natural outcome; everybody carries a baggage of sins, and my Grandma is destined for hell, never mind she is one of the gentlest persons I have known. The results of this Christian perversity and its irrational-dogma have been disastrous, evidenced by your own life and in the nuthouse world of Islamists, Christian fundamentalists, medieval Europe, and Hilterian Germany, a set of capriousness now being spread by an evangelical America to Asia, aided by the like of Ang Mo Kio Methodist Church. Your idea of a ‘failure’, hence your own thoughts of suicide, stems out of your own construction. Yet, here’s the flip-side problem of your making: all that you know does not belong to you; never did (Marcel Proust). They came from the fucking Church.

Hence, you see a shrink to try and remedy a problem that was, in its penultimate conception, artificially created, socially, culturally, ethically and by your church. The Abrahamic religions like Christianity and their preachers like Yeo Bee Yin and Hannah Yeoh are dangerous to our society, importing voodoo that’s as dangerous as is Donald Trump and Osama bin Laden. In China, we’d put them in their places, never allowing them to poison other people and divide us into categories. God dead (Dostoevski) is not good enough; we demand to be freed from its perverse idea. We don’t need some timber cross voodoo for comfort. No, we are our own comfort; we are a comfort to one another. My ‘soul’ (whatever the fuck that is) is not for you and your church to conquer nor convert:

I’m the master of my fate. I’m the captain of my soul.”  — William Ernest Henley, 1849-1903 (below)

There is simply no other way to look at life other than that which is real, not artificial, not made-up: It is what it is, like all other animals, the flowers and the trees around us, the mountains and valleys. Out of this growing up, we learn not love because that, in turn, assumes cynicism and intolerance, but pure, unmitigated acceptance. Above all, we learn what your Singapore shrink won’t tell you: we are simply human, sane or insane isn’t the point. That is, in another manner of speaking, we are better humans, with especially no Jesus Christ bogging us down.

On the other hand, a Christian like you is the penultimate narcissist, everything is centered on you, how pitiful you are, how wonderful you are saved, yada, yada, yada.

We don’t subscribe to your God, you and your church cast aspersions on our ethics and condemn us as heathens. Why don’t you just fuck off, die even if that gets you to heaven. That way the world where we must live in would be more habitable and humane, and not an impossible saintliness that doesn’t and can’t exist. And when you do go, take your motherfucking Yeo Bee Yin with you. For 600 years, we Chinese have to put up with you and your lot. No more, we now say! You won’t leave us alone then we come after you. (Or we’d send Annie — you don’t mess with her.) Get it? You piece of Cunt.

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Blame it on the Web. Before, a person publishes only if there is something worthy to say. These days, it’s THE place to go, if one were looking for a fight (or a fuck), the place where the illiterate and the nutcase Christians will show up. Imagine Alannah Cheah digital masturbation. Onward Christian soldier?

The following was reproduced from the briefest of exchange in Comment July 31 from the Christian/Anglophile Alannah Cheah after she read about Yeo Bee Yin (next post below).

Alannah Cheah:

rihaku, perhaps you should consider seeing a psychiatrist? — Alannah Suck-my-Cunt Cheah

 

In reply to Alannah Cheah.

alannah

https://www.facebook.com/alannah.cheah

Alannah Cheah, perhaps you should consider making a confession of your sins? After that go fuck your mother. Like PJ, Singapore has a good selection of empty pews (try Ang Mo Kio Methodist, directions below), churches and priests — for both your repressed-needs.
*amkmc

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Alannah Cheah Profile
1. Age, 30s. A interior design diploma. No formal university education, hence her stupidity, throwing an insult without knowing the difference between psychiatry and psychology.
2. Hometown, Petaling Jaya. Present residence Singapore
3. Employed at The Design Principals Pte Ltd. Blk 2 Balestier Rd #03-649 Balestier Hill Shopping Centre-Blk 2 Singapore 320002. Phone: 6251 6010. Director, Erroleen Tan (Like Alannah, Chinese Anglophiles like to give themselves fancy, tongue-twisting names. If you are still confused, Alannah is a cunt.)
4. Email, maybe: alannah.cheah@gmail.com
5. IP address (Singapore): 118.200.229.83
6. Has LinkedIn & Facebook accounts (links above).
7. Member of the Ang Mo Kio Methodist Church.
8. Part-time Sunday church job: Usher (someone who collects your money).

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愛 LOVE

https://i1.wp.com/www.buenosairesreview.org/wp-content/uploads/%E4%BE%AF%E5%9B%BD%E8%89%AF-boudoir-literario-550x500.jpg

張愛玲

這是真的。

有個村莊的小康之家的女孩子,生得美,有許多人來做媒,但都沒有說成。那年她不過十五六歲吧,是春天的晚上,她立在後門口,手扶著桃樹。她記得她穿的是一件月白的衫子。對門住的年輕人同她見過面,可是從來沒有打過招呼的,他走了過來,離得不遠,站定了,輕輕的說了一聲:“噢,你也在這裡嗎?”她沒有說什麼,他也沒有再說什麼,站了一會,各自走開了。

就這樣就完了。

後來這女子被親眷拐子賣到他鄉外縣去作妾,又幾次三番地被轉賣,經過無數的驚險的風波,老了的時候她還記得從前那一回事,常常說起,在那春天的晚上,在後門口的桃樹下,那年輕人。

於千萬人之中遇見你所遇見的人,於千萬年之中,時間的無涯的荒野裡,沒有早一步,也沒有晚一步,剛巧趕上了,那也沒有別的話可說,惟有輕輕的問一聲:“噢,你也在這裡嗎?”

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Zhang Ailing
translated by Tang Qiaomei

LOVE

It is true.

There was a village. There was a girl from a well-to-do family. She was a beauty. Matchmakers came, but none succeeded. She was no more than fifteen or sixteen, when on a spring evening she stood at the back door, resting her arm on a peach tree. She remembers the moon-white dress she wore. The young man living opposite her house had seen her before, but had never greeted her. He approached, stood still before her, and said softly: “Oh, you are here, also?” She said nothing, and he said nothing more. They stood for a while, then each walked away.

Like that, it was over.

Time passed. The girl was abducted by a relative, and would be a concubine in a strange land. Again and again, she was resold. Having endured life’s winds and waves, in her old age she still remembers the scene from long ago. She speaks often of that young man, under that peach tree, at that back door, on that spring evening.

You meet the one you meet amongst thousands and tens of thousands of people, amidst thousands and tens of thousands of years, in the boundless wilderness of time, not a step sooner, not a step later. You chance upon each other, not saying much, only asking softly, “Oh, you are here, also?”

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https://i0.wp.com/www.buenosairesreview.org/wp-content/uploads/zhang-ailing-photo-150x150.jpgZhang Ailing. A novelist, essayist, and screenwriter, Zhang Ailing, also known as Eileen Chang (1920 –1995), one of the most influential modern Chinese writers. Some of her works include the collection Love in a Fallen City; Lust, Caution; The rice-sprout song and The Rouge of the North.

https://i2.wp.com/www.buenosairesreview.org/wp-content/uploads/qiaomei.tang_-64x64.jpgTang Qiaomei, a native of Zhejiang, China, is a Ph.D. student at Harvard University where she studies early medieval Chinese poetry and literature, and teaches Chinese language courses. Her dissertation examines the representation of divorced women in early medieval Chinese writings. She most recently translated Chapter 3 of Cambridge History of Chinese Literature (Cambridge University Press, 2010).

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Acknowledgements

  • Lucy Tan, in America, for reminding about this gem from our Motherland. (Also read her brilliant interpretation of Zhang’s story, its Chinese context and our language use.)
  • Buenos Aires Review for safeguarding it.

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十年 Ten years

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