Tuesday, January 31, 2006

I think maybe we are both winds, one of us slides through a wooden flute, the other is dancing between buildings, gliding against underwear hung outside apartment windows. The sea is singing, and we can name every fish in the sea – that’s Charlie Parker, there’s Ibrahim Ferrer, the chubby one is James Brown. You think the ocean is a dot, and we are just looking at from the wrong dimension, like maybe all this blue is just one note lost in a longer song that neither of us remembers the words to, but just knows. I kind of think the sea is more like a straight line, you know, like a guitar string... six seas, six strings. And if you sit on a beach at night, and dip your fingers into the tide, you can make this world sing.

But there are seven seas, you say, the first time I met you you had your eyes closed... and you still aren’t seeing things!

Sunday, January 22, 2006

(photo from suitman)

suitman's good peoples.

(photo from wooster)

giant space invader. totally kickass too.

(photo from wooster)

by dan witz. awesome. totally awesome.

Saturday, January 21, 2006

no nuts

sometimes, i wear a helmet at work. we also play YMCA off our little stereo, and dance on a steel beam as a crane swirls us around.

the space i was in in the last two pictures is pretty psychotic - a gigantic room made out of a bamboo matrix, all to create a work space 12 meters up in the air so that workers can paint the ceiling.

"construction inspires me to play. it's like asking a very serious young lady to dance and whilst we are dancing she becomes very lighthearted." - h. henselmann.

Thursday, January 19, 2006

post work wonders:

- in architecture, i think the opposite is also true. a home on stilts, a home underwater, either way, we’ll be ok, we’ll be ok.

- crumpled paper is fantastic, with its jagged edges and cruel wrinkles, it’s like holding an asteroid… a meteor shower, in between your fingertips.

- the smell of streets after a rain, a crowd of assorted colognes and perfumes, and a cart of slow coal-cooked potatoes… great way to exit the office.

- when i feel creatively broke and can no longer sketch, i slip into our office’s material room, a giant closet with overcrowded shelves of granite, limestone, fake marble, woods, carpets, glass. i spend a few minutes picking up random samples and smelling them, running my fingers along its grooves. it’s my balance in the office, that and cigarette shit-talking breaks in the stairwell.

- the corporate office culture is surprisingly a lot like studio, only a lot faster, and no more buildings made out of pantyhose. clarity is important, and always going back to your original design intent when you’re stuck, otherwise you just end up drawing everything and getting nowhere.
look out

(more pictures from around wanchai.)

Sunday, January 15, 2006

the history of hong kong is carved at night clubs, between 4/4 counts and breakbeats. “my humps,” the dj always spins, along with “don’t cha,” “yeah,” and “get low.” the grind is the new handshake, and we sneak outside to get some fresh air. we sit on a street curb and exchange cigarettes, names, life stories. “we’re from korea, she’s from beijing.” “me, california.” “me too. irvine.” “he’s from newcastle.” “we grew up here, in hong kong.” who’s who are told in three or four languages, and things are translated, again, and again. we’re all drunk, and will mispronounce and forget each other’s names, won't see each other again after tonight. a beijing aspiring filmmaker, first weekend in town, is talking to an exchange student from cal, last weekend in town, and me, i’m thrashing with an engineering student in an alleyway, eyes closed, rocking out to a Swedish electro song.

at 3, we rush into another club, juke past the bouncer, the bouncer manages to grab me by the neck and throws me out. the bouncer then feels guilty and lets me back in.

the bar plays mc punjabi, and we’ll dance, hold, and laugh with each other til it’s time for breakfast (pork fried noodles and fish ball ramen.) a hong konger tries to tell a joke in english, and while none of us understands him, we laugh anyway. someone teaches me how to say “i’ll never forget you” in cantonese, i reply “daehan minguk manse!” a girl in marketing asks an exchange student on a bus what he’s looking for in his travels, and he says that the globe is just a big circle, and he’s on his way home.

i go outside to answer the cell phone, “what are you up to” “dancing in lan kwai fong!” “oh, good music?” “nah...”
here before

(around causeway bay and wanchai, hong kong)

Monday, January 09, 2006

a kiggass christopher doyle interview, herre’s a snippet:

If Martin Scorsese can make a piece of shit called The Aviator and then go on to remake a Hong Kong film, don't you think he's lost the plot? Think it through. “I need my Oscar, I need my fucking Oscar!” Are you crazy? There’s not a single person in the Oscar voting department who's under 65 years old. They don't even know how to get online. They have no idea what the real world is about. They have no visual experience anymore. They have preoccupations. So why the fuck would a great filmmaker need to suck the dick of the Academy with a piece of shit called The Aviator? And now he has to remake our film? I mean this is bullshit. This is total bullshit. I love Marty, I think he's a great person. And the other one is Tarantino. Oh yeah, let's appropriate everything.

oh, i just saw part of wong kar wai's fallen angels tonight... whatta fuckin nice movie.

Sunday, January 08, 2006

tonight, give me watercolors and a holga camera, a blown kiss tipping off the wing of a jumbo jet, india ink and a lover’s lower back, a sketch scrawled with writing lips, eyelashes, and fingernails, i want hesitation, uncertainty, a rusty fish hook in my chest and strings spun out of spit and sweat, muscles muddied, shadows of sparrows shaped with entangled hands, grant me the clumsiness of not knowing, the terror of being lost, let me fight with every ounce in me, lose terribly, and want what i haven't got.

and tomorrow, i will wake up at 8. take a shower. put on a tie. go to mcdonalds for breakfast, and go to work.

Thursday, January 05, 2006

told myself i wouldn’t do this but then i read high fidelity at the bookstore yesterday so...

top records of 2005
edan – beauty and the beat
seu jorge – cru
why? – elephant eyelashes
animal collective and vashti bunyan – project hummer
daedalus – exquisite corpse
koushik – be with
denizen kane – 10 new songs
danger doom – the mouse and the mask
lyrics born - same shit different day
final fantasy - has a good home

top films of 2005
head-on, dir: fatih akin
survive style 5+, dir: gen sekiguchi
me, you, and everyone we know, dir: miranda july
syriana, dir: stephan gaghan
sympathy for lady vengeance, dir: chan-wook park
40 year old virgin, dir: judd apatow
vital, dir: shinya tsukamoto
batman begins, dir: christopher nolan
turtles can fly, dir: bahman ghobadi
broken flowers, dir: jim jarmusch

other things of 2005
bob dylan, nina simone, caetano veloso songs
the book of laughter and forgetting, milan kundera
wings of desire, dir: wim wenders
star wars clone wars (the animated series)
architecture association student projects 2005
persepolis I & II, marjane satrapi
matthew barney cremaster cycle
apples to apples card game
scorcese on scorcese, martin scorcese
moleskin sketchbook
unkle nike dunks, minimal adidas

still – i need to simplify: more libraries, more rentals, less shopping, less downloads. i've been in hong kong for only four months and already my room is cluttered, sticky-taped, and trainwrecked.
don’t know where i’m headed:

but maybe all these roads, sidewalks, rooftops, fire-escapes, subways, and cities are just sticky songs pulled out of our lungs, skylines riding on the arcing spine of choruses, beats, crescendos, braggadocios, like cheesy shit, like new order, like every time I see you falling I drop down on my knees and pray, like things that’ll annoy and make you feel like all your nerves are microphones and your whole body is one soju filled karaoke bar... but you won’t care, you’ll just dance.

and maybe there’s a home to words, sidewalks mixed and poured out of hellos, how are yous? i snapped a see you out of someone’s lips and forged a boat out of it, clutched a good bye someone gave me and wore it as a track jacket home.

what i mean is: i think we live with what’s said, dream with what’s not.