great jady!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! check it out!

haha i really laughed my ass off, that short scribble you wrote on Mr. P Pervert that is. Yao huihui read it too and we recalled a great deal abt Pervis, but eventually came to the conclusion that those Londoners all look alike and we can't recall who's the one who loves the word 'rubbish' so much, with a spicy accent.

back to our original plan. free verse by which i mean, anything there exists in your imagination, poetry, broken sentences, ones you put down in a word document and found them all underlined in red, but all of these can't be more welcome in this slapstick free verse project.

i wrote a short paragraph some time ago and left it hanging, whether you wanna continue painting that imaginary character, delete, add, insert, whatever or start anew. at least let's get it moving.


A big yawn, seems to suck in all the air there is in this room, which becomes a vacuum as a result. Who knows the temperature of a thing called vacuum? Or have you ever heard of weather forecast on vacuum? The vacuum is snowing, raining, temperature drops to sub zero? Laugh away my friend.
But it’s freezing.
For my heart sits in its half cold labyrinth, deadly composed, listening to mutters. Then a strike of laughters that for once seem to break the crystal of thoughts, but no, they only shake the vacuum. Left, right, up, down. Riding the spasm which stops in no time.
You can sense shadows crowding, dark patches that flicker against the curtain painted golden by the lamp light. I don’t have to look to see. Doesn’t take much for a blind man to be wise. Whispers that are only a step away from excited gasps, mouths nipping on ears that are dangerously close, nervous glances exchanged that fail to hold a heart’s thousand secrets.
I’m the one looking on, a dangerous cat prowling with sensual strides, eyeing its prey from afar, ready to attack at any time. But the cat is not hungry. Kills for pride, kills for sinister discontentment. Kills to break the vacuum.
‘Hey, stoned again? Wanna play poker? We need one more to fill in.’
Prey is speaking. Low life. How pathetic and insignificant like a dust to be brushed off.
‘Why not. I’m bored’
Half lie, half truth.

indeed what happened

dear stick,
indeed what happened to our original plan. I wouldn't call it cowardly that I decide to quit the monumental project titled novel X right now. Partly due to the fact that I can't devote my time to extensive brainstorming and writing with absolute logic with few loopholes that are required of a successful detective novel. and It's neither wise to start out so big at first try. My suggestion is reserve the tarot muder and novel exchange as two separate projects for further development and meanwhile let's do some free verses as what originally planned. what do u think? I'm asking the same question here. I feel it's getting too big to be mangaged. Think smaller and have a realistic start seems to be more practical, at least for me coz I know i can keep it up and not dropping it any time I feel demoralized or brain blocked. waiting for your verdict and we'll see which path we choose. when we feel it's time to stop the free verse correspondence we'll be good enough n prepared to take on the two projects. let's title the free verse project slapstick for now and write whatever we want. alrite, less said and just vote.
we may even drop pieces of our thoughts into the free verse just to prepare for the 2 projects and see how it goes since there's no consequence attached.

Stick's vote

Of course I'd vote for that. That's what I (and you) wanted to do all along! Motion passed!



Haha, so now we do free verse. By ‘free verse' do you mean only poems like ‘A bird'? Or just any form like short stories? In any language? (We only know two anyway…plus what little French and Greek and Latin we could scramble together between us…hahaha) I am on for absolutely anything, anyway.



I am flipping through my old scrapbook, looking for tidbits of inspiration for a short story or something…and it strikes me how long since I last actually held a pen and wrote an entry. I am tempted to make just one, though probably inevitably silly, New Year's Resolution—keep a diary like VW did, who left 26 big volumes of diary after her, which she wrote with in mind the future pleasure of a 50 year-old VW slowly burning them in a fireplace, which she eventually didn't, and 50 a threshold she never lived to cross. WHY are we so obsessed with VW?! She's great, a true artist no doubt; still the obsession could be something worthy of several long notes of explanation from ourselves.



Ah, now I come across a hastily scribbled paragraph, standing all by itself. Ha! See if it's continuable!



Mr. P slowly articulated his arguments from between his teeth and his glassy blue eyes gazed down at me with a look of triumph. I was not sure I knew what was behind that look—“rebut me?' or “dare you to?” or “now nod and say yes”. Would have blurted out something were I in another place, but I was in Singapore, the Embarrassing Island, which possessed all the embarrassments of a former colony. Not wholly British; not Chinese, or Malay or Indian in that case; it's caught in the middle and can't make up its mind which way to go, therefore a ‘culture meltpot'. Meltpot my ass. I pulled myself back from raging thoughts and said, “Yes sir, I get your point.”



Hoho I guess that was written after some particularly frustrating conversation with Mr Purvis the Pervert, still remember him? Never mind what the argument was about, I don't remember it anyway. If you think it's possible to go on, go on anyway you like. First person or third, new characters, out of Singapore and into space, time travel, whatever. We are in a blindly-write-and-exchange game! And I think it best to first draw material from familiar experience for starting writers, and life in Singapore definitely falls in that range, ain't it? And if you think it's best to leave the rather 没头没尾的 paragraph alone, throw something else over!



And now I've come to the end of my grey scrapbook that lasted me from July 2002 to November 2003, and reread my own novel project that aborted after some dense three pages. Maybe I SHALL pick it up and bring it out of oblivion! My New Year's Resolution number 2!! With any luck, you'll get to read it ten years later.

I wandered lonley as a cloud - William Woodsworth

I wondered lonely as a cloud-William Woodsworth

probably the most well-known poem, compelled to post it up though. maybe just because it's such a bright n happy poem. n happy poems are rare.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud


1I wandered lonely as a cloud
2That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
3When all at once I saw a crowd,
4A host, of golden daffodils;
5Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
6Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.


7Continuous as the stars that shine
8And twinkle on the milky way,
9They stretched in never-ending line
10Along the margin of a bay:
11Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
12Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.


13The waves beside them danced; but they
14Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
15A poet could not but be gay,
16In such a jocund company:
17I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
18What wealth the show to me had brought:


19For oft, when on my couch I lie
20In vacant or in pensive mood,
21They flash upon that inward eye
22Which is the bliss of solitude;
23And then my heart with pleasure fills,
24And dances with the daffodils.
Notes

1] Wordsworth made use of the description in his sister's diary, as well as of his memory of the daffodils in Gowbarrow Park, by Ullswater. Cf. Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, April 15, 1802: "I never saw daffodils so beautiful. They grew among the mossy stones . . .; some rested their heads upon these stones, as on a pillow for weariness; and the rest tossed and reeled and danced, and seemed as if they verily laughed with the wind, that blew upon them over the lake; they looked so gay, ever glancing, ever changing."


21-22] Wordsworth said that these were the two best lines in the poem and that they were composed by his wife.

and about the line numbers, that how univeristy of toronto categorizes the poems. and i'm too lazy to do any editing.

Krall song of the moment--|Stop this World|

Stop this world, let me off

There's just too many pigs

in the same trough

There's too many buzzards

sitting on the fence

Stop this world

it's not making sense


Stop this show, hold the phone

Better days this girl has known

Better days so long ago

Hold the phone

won't you stop the show


Well,

it seems my little playhouse

has fallen down

I think my little ship has run aground

I feel like I'm in the wrong place

My state of mind is a disgrace


Won't you stop this game

deal me out

I know too well what it's all about

I know too well that it had to be

Stop this game well it's ruining me


Well I got too smart for my own good

I just don't do the things I know I should

There's bound to be some better way

I just got one thing more to say


And that is

Stop this game,

deal me out

I know too well what it's all about

I know too well that it had to be

Stop this game well it's wrecking me

Disillusioning comes slow and painful; in spite of the slowness, and because of the pain, it is irreversible. It's yet to be termed “disillusionment”, for it's yet to complete, the heart yet to release its clamping, compulsive-obsessive clasp on hopes, true or false alike. It's yet to rid itself of attachment and anticipation, yet to live true to a Buddhist lifestyle of having magnanimous love towards the world at large, and without attachment. The other day I came across this passage on friend's blog—

笑容立定可取，快乐下落不明

跟一个朋友一起去吃饭， 两个话痨凑在一起，一边吃一边说自然觉得很开心。
但是后来，他突然说，虽然此刻在笑，其实已经很久很久，没有感觉过那种发自内心的开心。他说着这些的时候，表情依然很淡然， 像在说着一件与己无关的事。

我们看欢乐总动员， 看八卦新闻，看六人行，看一切网上广泛流传的，脍炙人口的经典段子。我们那么乐观，随时随地，很容易就可以笑出声音。可是，当他问我最近有没有发自内心的开心过时，我笑着笑着停了下来，这问题太简单，但我却无法开口说出那答案。

我知道他说的那种发自内心的开心，那是一种从里到外的，无法言喻的欢喜，觉得诸事皆顺，万物皆顺眼，满心有无数的快乐要与人分享。那种感觉，曾经有过，至今依然记得。只是已经很久很久，没有体会过。

也许只有当一样你向往了很久很久的东西，终于被握在手中的时候，才会有那样深的幸福感。但是现在的我们，不再有耐心和勇气去等待和追求任何一样东西， 我们更喜欢那些垂手可得的快乐，虽然浅薄，然而立杆见影，是以也稍纵即逝。

过生日的时候许愿，闭上眼的瞬间，竟有一丝的慌乱，突然发现不知道自己要什么。只好马马虎虎的祈祷岁月静好，现世安稳罢了。一个连愿望都无法清晰的说出的人，又怎么会有愿望实现的时候那深切的欢喜？

与此相对的，是哭也变得比以前容易，甚至一句台词一段旋律都可以骗取我们的感伤和眼泪， 但是事后，也并没有多深切的悲伤。如果一样东西其实并未深入内心，不过是在脑海一闪而过，此间的得失，自然不会造成多么彻骨的痛苦。

我就这样变成了一个无所谓的人，同时丢失了那些鲜明的欢喜和哀伤。立等可取的眼泪和笑容更多的时候不过是一种发泄的途径，已经和我们秘而不宣的内心无关。

在轻浅的悲喜背后，是对生活淡淡的失望。
那些真正经历着快乐或悲伤的人，都是幸运的.

My first reaction was, How right this is. One moment later I felt confused, for when I thought about it I no longer was so sure that I'd agree, and didn't know how to categorize myself either—I live, or have been trying to live, a detached life, yet I constantly got myself into violent attacks of emotions, not infrequently invited them to me. Rapid switching back and forth between a peaceful/free of want state and an agitated, sensitive state helps only to push the schizophrenic tendency further, and hardly anything else. My tranquil self despises my actively seeking and feeling self for its attachment with the world, and the latter despises the former for its cowardice and escapism. In all good conscience I could just stick to one and be at peace with the universe and myself, but why oh why am I still not even remotely doing that?!

Jude, what do you think?!



评论/留言
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作者：Slappujudu　　时间：2004-12-4 6:14:30

it''s hard to say...
what''s the last time you felt so very happy?
unhappiness and discontentent are twins, at least for me. I always thought more things we know, more things we try to figure out on our own, the greater the discontentment that follows for not being able to truly understand material things, emotional status, and finally ourselves, whether we''re happy, whether what we''re doing is meaningful or whether the tea leaves are going to settle down at the bottom of the teacup at all. becoming detached and unfocused, small things easily fix my mind.it''s sometimes not even a matter of whether i choose to be one state or another, i let go of my feelings so easily that I don''t even bother to consciously pull myself out of it. and all of these for me, i know it''s the discontentment that comes with age. the feeling of not being in control puts me in hyper tension and to conquer my own discontentment i lose sight of happiness. but guess it depends on the simplicity of one''s mind and what it is he seeks in life. my grandma leads a simple life, haha gimme a break, i guess most grandmas do. if i ever see some granny one minute beseiged by the complexity of a philosophical problem n sinks into deep self inspection and the other minute all smiles n steady coz her secret wish come true i''d rather not be borne knowing this constant struggle of mind and mood swings are continueing into one''s late years. maybe i''m exaggerating and i bet there''re still some old grumpy souls out there. but the truth is, or i think it is, that all these frustrating split personalities are going to fade when i learn to let go, and that won''t happen any soon until i''m old n wrinkled as my grandma, and that''s an inevitable fact that''s programmed into my life. sometimes i think my definitions for my state of well-being is horribly strict. grandma smiles when we crowd around her, hugging n pinching her stomach. i laugh when told a joke, or when a friend''s words warms my heart. which one do u call happy? and who has the right to define transient happiness for everyone n why the need to cruelly separate them and draw boundaries, saying the cat with spots is not a true cat. I might have denied my own laughters but again, that''s probably coz i''m so discontented I start to doubt every existing particle, picking trivial wrongs out of ordinary happiness. but i am happy, even interspersed with fits of violence in life, coz they''re inevitable.
and don''t dispise your violent self coz that part of you is not wrong. neither be stringent with your tranquil self coz you are entitled to what''s rightfully yours. all i can say is, live easier and don''t escape. and maybe when you''re at the bottom of your own cage, will it comfort you that someone is thinking of you, hoping you well. it might sound cliche but why won''t that be happiness. r we not too strict on something as innocent as happiness. won''t it be overly painful to doubt every single line you heard or suspect nothing is what it seems. i''ll tell u a joke just to make you laugh and don''t roll it three times in your brain whether you laugh coz u r happy. you''re happy coz i wish you r happy, that''s why i''m telling the joke. simple.

有人用箭射大猩猩，一射，大猩猩用左手接住了， 二射，右手接住。 三射， 大猩猩用嘴接住了。三箭射完了，坏人已经没有箭了。可是最后，大猩猩还是死了， WHY WHY WHY

Depression, Jazz, Blues, and loving Diana Krall

The first time I heard Diana, I said to myself, this is how I've always wished my singing voice to be, low, throaty, has a warm, grainy texture to it, like those old pinewood floorboards in old-fashioned houses, brown with time, comfortably dry yet moist with fermented sentiments, faintly fragrant.

Now in another violent bout of depression I sit in my unlit room in the failing afternoon light, salty liquid half dried on cheeks, listening to Diana once more. That worn out heart trying to take those melancholic doses of warmth in, like how I would clasp my stone cold hands round a glass of steamy water in winter times, then slowly sip, drink, and feel the heat tickle every cell awake as it passes. The Heart is Lonely Hunter, by McCullers. I suddenly think of the novel I have yet to read. Only read another book by the same author long time ago, The Ballad of the Sad Cafe, from which I copied the following quote—

"Often the beloved is only a stimulus for all the stored-up love which had lain quiet within the lover for a long time hitherto. And somehow every lover knows this. He feels in his soul that his love is a solitary thing. He comes to know a new, strange loneliness and it is the knowledge which makes him suffer. So there's only one thing for the lover to do. He must house his love within himself as best as he can; he must create for himself a whole new inward world—a world intense and strange, complete in himself…the value and quality of any love is determined solely by the lover himself.

It is for this reason that most of us would rather love than be loved. Almost everyone wants to be the lover. And the curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being beloved is intolerable to many. The beloved fears and hates the lover, and with the best of reasons."

That's right. Go check out McCullers sometime. She wrote with a reticence and taciturnity that's most uncommon in writers.

And back to Krall. In her latest album she wrote six of the twelve songs, most of which are introspective, personal, and most intimate. And my personal favorite—

The Girl in the Other Room.

The girl in the other room
She knows by now
There's something in all of her fears
Now she wears it threadbare
She sits on the floor
The glass pressed tight to the wall
She hears murmurs low
The paper is peeling
Her eyes staring straight
at the ceiling

Maybe they're there
Maybe it's nothing at all
As she draws lipstick smears
on the wall

The girl in the other room
She powders her face
And stares hard
Into her reflection

The girl in the other room
She stifles a yawn
Adjusting the strap of her gown
She tosses her tresses
Her lover undresses
Turning the last lamp light down
What's that voice we're hearing?
We should be sleeping
Could that be someone who's weeping?

Maybe she's there
Maybe there's nothing to see
It's just a trace of what used to be

The girl in the other room
She darkens her lash
And blushes
She seems to look familiar

It is almost poetry. Or shall we say, it IS poetry, of its own kind, lyrical and wonderful, almost a film sequence, fragmentary frames, an oil painting, an afternoon reverie. A dimpling sea of mercury that mirrors an image of a ghostly self in me, immaterial, shivering with the joy of existence, and also angst of having in possession pining youth that's both a blessing and a curse. Am I the Girl in the Other Room? Or am I the one thinking about the Girl in the Other Room? Or both? Or neither? Only time knows. Which, again, is an illusion.


评论/留言
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作者：Slappujudu　　时间：2004-12-4 5:27:33
dear stick, your thoughts almost remind of of esther sama, but then probably no. her constant ''angst'' doesn''t contain melancholy. i actually listened to diana krall''s new album and was playing ''stop this world'' on repeat mode some period months back. and yes her voice is surely sensual and throaty. what i understand about beloved or the to love which paired together will be perfect but taken to be unidirectionally domineering, seems like a a selfish emotional outlet of what i''d say is excessive love that is eager to spread over and devour that ''house'' which quietly and patiently holds those tingling nerves until the emotional tides swell up from inside and eager to conquer another territory-the beloved. mind of a new lover that starts to live in your heart house and unaware it''s changing u in little aspects that amount to a new being recoganizable no longer. and you stare into the mirror grimacing and screaming at the new art work sculpted by a foreigner who comes from his own lonely planet n makes yours his home. dunno what i''m talking about. just suddenly feel that love is selfish. and lovers probably the sweetest enemies.

12月3日 占卜

十字法 问：情

1. 塔 U
2. 皇后 R
3. 魔术师 R
4. 死神 R
5. 星星 R
6. 正义 U
7. 皇帝 R
8. 祭司 R
9. 恋人 U
10. 倒吊男 U

理智，情感，谶。他人，自己。该相信谁。可以相信谁。

Stick starting Chapter One

Stick wakes with a splitting headache and yawns wildly. Contemplating the ceiling fan for some fractions of a second he decides to call himself ‘It' today, a sexless, whirlpool-like consciousness. ‘It' then lethargically tosses around on the narrow bed, only to discover, grudgingly, that he's sleeping among scattered tarot cards, survivors of previous night's attempts at fortune-telling. Thwarted efforts in trying to tear the opaque veil off Fate's ugly face had driven Stick into some tantrum-throwing, which resulted in, among other things, an already-dog-eared and faded set of tarot cards becoming ink-stained and torn beyond repair. One card, however, seems to fare surprisingly well—The Fool, resting snugly beside Stick's pillow, stands unscathed, clean, grinning widely, a sight that's almost sinister in the feeble morning light. Stick shudders and in the same flash of a second recalls the impending deadline of the novel, which his agent and sometimes even the publisher have started calling up and inquiring about more frequently than pleasant. The stack of paper Stick prepared for the novel months ago now sleeps on his broad desk in the vast emptiness of his workroom, yellowed through autumn and winter, yet to enjoy the gentle scratch of a pen point and soothing flow of indigo ink. Except last night, in the severe attack of Nausea and self-loathing, Stick had smashed his pewter ink bottle. He stared gaping, as if stunned, as the indigoness, now free of confines, flied towards the paper stack and gave it a light kiss on the side, speckling each and every page with idiosyncratic streaks and dots, almost as telling as crack patterns on a turtle shell.

Alright, I am going to start with The Fool. Before Stick consciously realizes his almost subconscious resolution, he's already striding into the deserted, stale workroom, and starts scribbling away frenziedly in a broken pencil. Somehow, the impermanency and ease of change of pencil marks gives Stick tremendous comfort, unthought of and quite unthinkable in his fountain pen days. He writes—

April 1st,
[The Fool—Upright: New beginnings, new adventures, new opportunities, unlimited possibilities, pleasure, passion, thoughtlessness, rashness. Reverse: A bad decision, indecision, apathy, hesitation, a faulty choice.]

“Mother, I think I'll go to the literature camp myself.”
A girl in a checkered denim dress lowered her eyes and said aloud, as if more to herself than to her slightly startled mother. It was a clear day in mid-spring, the platform, reeling in gasoline smell, was quickly emptying, the dusty red train noisily engulfing passengers, the air making its presence felt by its unsettling stillness.

The girl fingered the creases in her faded blue dress and said once more, this time with a solemnity and determination that was almost irrefutable. She didn't turn around to behold the melancholic, knowing smile in her mother's eyes; she knew. Without another word she reached out for her light suitcase, now with a black dove sitting on it, Sphinx-like, fixing her with an unfathomable stare, cooing silently. She felt momentarily dizzy, blackness closing in all at once. She shook her head, and it was daylight again. The black little creature had departed, leaving an almost dried, heart shaped puddle of poop on the suitcase. Instinctively the girl reached in her pocket for a Kleenex—“Don't.” the mother broke her silence suddenly, her voice low and comforting, her manner queenly. The girl looked up into those steady, dark eyes, and saw both premonition and determined amusement. In that fleeting eye-contact mother and daughter conversed a thousand thoughts, and the girl boarded the train, alone.

Diary, April the first, departure from northpoint station.
Alice,
We both saw the premonition in mom's eyes just now and I can hardly tell what the Future has in stock for me. You, my future self, would be wiser of course, but I won't be daunted to jot down my ignorance now, or maybe it's just my usual rash thoughtlessness that constantly threaten to humiliate me before you. Either way, I'll say this: I am happy that I am embarking on this new adventure, though I am hardly seeing beyond where I stand in time and space Now, the bright penetrating light of the torch that's my Insight now rendered quite powerless as the straight passageways it shone down no longer are, replaced instead by crooked, narrow alleys, meandering in an insentient maze called Fate, all a resolute choice of mine. New openings, new possibilities, adventures, these are what energize me, and I really hope that you still hold these dear in your heart, no matter how far you have advanced on the Time axis.

Novel X, a tentative start

Prologue (Or should it be plot summary?)

Here’s a room, almost empty you say, but there’s one desk which makes you hesitate to say the word ‘empty’, and above all, there’s a man at the desk, biting his pencil. You can almost make out the teeth marks. He’s thinking, musing, deeply entrapped in his own web of imagination, or is it deadlock--we’re not sure. But we can see his pages are empty. There’s only a date, 1 April. He needs his players, he needs a protagonist. Probably a girl to start with, then continue to invite in more to make the plot going. He stared hard at the blankness and suddenly started to scribble with such fury that started us.



Meanwhile, it might be useful to know that the man is a schizophrenic, split into two major personalities, among other tinier, quieter ones; he himself terms the two Slap and Stick, mocking his own life as a slapstick writer. Quite a terminal case, shall we say.

Here you say there’s nothing special about it, just another lunatic writing a multi-paragraph self-entertaining thing. Why, it’s all a dream. We always excuse the inconsequentiality and nonsensicality of dreams, don’t we.

It’s a dynamic, interactive novel. Not to be composed by one person alone. For every 2 weeks, writings are to be exchanged, at random. To whom the unfinished pieces are passed on to is unknown. Scripts are deposited in a black box and drawn by the next one, but who? Nobody knows. No complaints, no grudges. Write on as if it’s always been your own.

They don’t know each other. How is that possible? Communication is strictly forbidden. Let’s just idealize the situation for now and be contented.
They can’t tell from handwritings since everything’s typewritten.

But, there’re always ways to know. Loopholes, chances, traps.

The same beginning takes on different flows. Life of the writer at the desk takes different turns.


A girl gets to know the secrets of a boy, or she thinks it’s a he. And keeps the secrets well. Pen pals in love.

One of them writes a detective story. On paper, horrible crimes are committed. On the day of final submission, real murder takes place. It is April 1st.
Who wrote the plot? Too many. Who did it? No one. Everyone.
A paper is stolen and returned a day later. Everything’s the same except the ending. Why the change?
They’re each independent happenings. They’re all linked

novel discussion post 2

novel discussion post2

haha great great kicking it off! yeah i totally agree that we should have some kind of forum specially dedicated to novel discussion just to keep track n easy reference. stick, you configure that! Stick starting Chapter One, great! initally when i read the post i thought the 'Fool' was a he, or is it my stereotypical view that made me think along this old line. surprised yet super delighted that it's a female FOOl hahaha, laughing my lungs out. this's kind of offstream n cool in some sense to have a female protagonist who's like the puppet master pulling the strings n silently dictating the lives of our tarot players behind the scenes dont you think? alrite, so we have Stick as the map maker. This's getting mysteriously interesting!!

and i favour the idea that the life of our protagonist, the Fool, should be given little mention throughout the early part of the novel, or maybe only unfolded slowly, bits by bits to keep her a forever mysterious mind boggler. and about what kind of background and character the FOOL shoudl entitle, it must be somewhat unusual and shocking then, can't think of an abstract idea of it though. yes she's schizo.

Tarot cards: agree, 22 would be horrifyingly excessive. let's lay our favourite cards down. i think something mysterious about tarot card (it does happen to me!!) is that some cards never appear. for me personally,these cards seldom appear ' the lovers, hierophant, the sun'. and these appear with shocking high frequency 'devil, justice, fool, magician'. well, digressed. ok, i'll pick some first.

lovers
justice
devil
hermet
hierophant
magician
death
empress/emperor - should we give both versions? they're about the same to me, maybe just choose one.

btw, is there such card as 'stars', 'the towers'? stars being hope, towers meaning dillema? and the hangman?

stick pick your favourite cards and let's see the final contestants.

mmm, after deciding the cards let's assign names n characters and link them all up in some way. like matchmaking game, maybe we should think of some ultra bizzare relationship, such as the Hierophant with the hermit,hangman and tower, and some contesting ones like devil-justice, death-stars etc. can well go beyond one to one correspondence. and anyway it's a dynamic novel and everything gets swapped on periodical basis, so there's equal chance that these tarot characters meet each other once, on paper or in some other forms.

logic is a tangle of mess now. i'll continue with chapter 2 tmr. any suggestions how to do the intro, or we stick with 'stick writing the first chap', or giving a prologue. i was thinking, giving each chapter a tarot card name may not be a very good idea though, depends on how we pull it off, if not smooth it'll sound very mundane and poorly structured. ideas?? and continuing on chap 1, the fool start scratching the scary date down' april 1st', what will she write and who's gonna follow?
maybe we should draw up some independent events first, major themes, such as establishing the realtionship of major characters. ok, waiting for your wise thoughts! with abaited breath!!

Novel discussion post 3

hoho now Stick wakes again and here's my thoughts: but hey no, before my thoughts, I must give my previous batch of thoughts/intentions, which consist of the following—
1. nah Stick is hardly THE mapmaker. Neither is Stick a female. In my head it went like this: since Novel X is a doll-within-doll affair, the outermost layer is of course the man at the desk in an empty room writing the detective novel, and in the tentative prologue I named this man SlapStick, who is schizophrenic, who splits into two major personalities that's Us! This lays the grounds that Us can take turns to write and the differential styles explained for. In a style like “stick writing chap one”, “slap writing chap 2”, “stick continuing chap25””slap revising chap 14””diary: by stick/slap” etc etc, so as to give ourselves flexibility and control over the developments at any one time. Hence, Slap is THE OTHER IMPORTANT HALF OF a mapmaker, just like how it works here in the blog enterprise hehehehe. Exactly which differing aspects of personality in Us (us us us) we want to reflect here in novelist SlapStick we both will have to start another discussion on. My tentative ideas now: Stick as the angry, anxious, impatient, violent, fatalistic, and always theorizing about HIS (since Slapstick was defined to be a man biologically) sexual identity or lack thereof (therefore the she/he/it thought, a minor point of interest which could be played out more if it becomes more relevant later), and Slap as gentle maybe, easier going, trying to be brighter, but still a bit sulky about life n acrid. We'll have to make them two distinctly different, if not contrasting, yet subtly sharing some character too, say sentimentality, that underlies the united individual Slapstick. Gotta arrive at a consensus later.

2. So Slapstick being a terminal case of schizophrenic (refer to Prologue) constantly switches back and forth between Slap and Stick (reminds of Fightclub huh?), either self quite unconscious of the switches. He may keep a personal diary too, so while detective novel under his pen unfolds, his own personal history and problems and realisation of his split can be disclosed on a parallel line. (how very complex! But hey, we are challenge-loving souls!)

summary of chat history, 2004-12-01

1. agreeing on the girl being a schizo…there's distinct difference between schizoid and schizophrenic and i am not sure which would fit with her THE FOOL identity better, if at all. NB: gotta do research on that.
2. named the fool Alice, from Alice in wonderland. Her mom is the high priestess, tentatively
3. the novel has 3 layers: slapstick, tarot set ppl, tarot ppl novel
4. hourglass structure probably. the first and third layers being the bigger ends, the second layer a connection between the two worlds
5. characters sorta abstract and eccentric and surreal but hauntingly make readers have to identify with one or another trait in them
6. the personalities of characters remain largely unaltered, we assume that's where slap and stick have unwittingly agreed upon. only the fate of the people are steered around. like in a whirlpool they are pulled by contesting forces （ that's us), not knowing if in the end they'd be swallowed alive or escape
7. we write diary entries and letters and 3rd person narratives on 2nd layer but the weightage needn be as big as on 1 and 3
8. characters in layer2 have real life names, like alice. they arrive at the scene of confine, say an island, a mountain resort, and are asked to draw tarot cards.
9. we have to come up with characters and establish their basic relationships or else this's gonna run into a hodgepodge given how inexperienced we are. although individual pictures will be perfect, impressionistic, coloured, the whole plot can't be void or else we'll be 张艺谋ｎｏ．２
10. a bit like nausea/fightclub/ten little niggers/run lola run/conan/the talented mr ripley/*more to come* rolled into 1
11. http://www.themysticeye.com/info/tarotcardm.htm
12. stick's fav cards ( which are suitable to adapt into persons): fool, magician, hanged man, hermit, devil
13. maybe an inner circle of ppl writing the novel, say five, plus the ruling one, who can be the Emperor going all wrong in the head. and there's an outer circle, relatives and friends, whom the inner circle communicate with via letter, telepathy, whatever
14. the devil in particular in slap's impression is a very charismatic person
15. fool and magician are lovers
16. slap was thinking of a character, not exactly hermit, someone inconsequential who has extrememly low self esteem n watches others in silence, always there in the shadows and he has lots of secrets too. Stick thought that's the hanged man.
17. there are just 9 ppl cards among the 22.. 9=fool, magician,high priestess,empress,emperor,hierophant,hermit,hanged man,devil
18. slapstick himself could be the tenth one. Nice number.
19. summary of chap1: alice is departing from train station, saying bye to her mom who's tentatively the high priestess, going to the mountain resort/island. a 3rd person narrative, maybe plus a short diary entry
20. if we auteurs can't agree on one ending, we can write multiple endings...like run lola run
21. advice: don't look too far and speculate immoderately, or you shall get vertigo and writer's block.