Fake. So much of it around. Answers made of neon and plastic. Flashing the emptiness inside the conduit with pride and fluorescence. Becoming the norm and the boredom.
I’ve lived in China for more than a decade, surprised everyday until recently at finding myself here, ready each morning to discover surroundings so distant from those of my youth. Cutting the smog on my way to work with knifelike astonishment; absorbing the frantic sounds from the streets, a dozen times per hour the gross, yucky scraping of the throats before dispersion of all conceivable germs through adept spitting; the systematic and transparent lies of the merchants as they see the laowai approaching; the madness of the car drivers who think mastery of the horn equates that of the road code. Lawlessness as a way of life, one’s brother’s neighbor’s best friend’s colleague with sufficient connections in high places to fix whatever problem may come by. The lazy way around tough situations as the most favored course of action, patiently pretending problems don’t exist, long enough until by themselves they might make an exit. Or the dominant thought that others, usually from an abstract higher ethereal entity like the State, will fix everything, making knowledge and autonomy the least useful things to desire for oneself.
And yet, I have stayed. Because of the laughter, child-like and widespread, the giggles to nicely veil ignorance, embarrassment, fright, puzzlement, mistakes. Laughing as a musical subterfuge. A way to elegantly dress bonds, alliances, to mark the most trivial encounters as memorable events. Laughter replacing words, angelic and trustworthy, devoid of security threats, nothing being held against you. Chuckles as a way to say nothing and everything. The joviality understood as a moment of peace and of absence, an admitted cope-out, no vacant space for arithmetic or spelling errors, a sense of liberation from duty and responsibility. Pretty, crystalline. Artificial sunshine to keep appearances healthy. Laughter to add noise to the already loud city, an attempt against the menace of silence, the stillness where one would notice his or her personality reduced to the size of a bagatelle.
But then again, a much more pleasant sound than tears.
Although tears come in handy when one is confronted to an unfulfilled obligation. When after laughter all is not forgiven. When, despite the enchanting sparks of a good belly laugh, traces of one’s inaptitude still show. Tears to soften hearts, to bring others to their knees. A theater of tragicomic pantomime to break resolve. To become an exception to rules no one even wanted to acknowledge a second before. Tears for a fast escape. To avoid being named, fingered, called up front. Sobbing to remain undetected as an accountable person, evoking pity, compassion, a maneuver to bypass judgment, to remain unchallenged. To be granted undeserved benefits, some kind of birth right, to get one's way with a well-placed well-heard movement of the vocal chords, the belief in the instantaneity of magic tricks to erase personal shortcomings. Crying to prevent thinking, the advent of a why or a how. Sometimes the sounds corresponding to sadness undifferentiated from those meant to express joy, both like chunks of undefined vocalization aware there’s an advantage at playing the two sides.
Laughing and crying, parts of the same stratagem. The ruse to suppress any other type of intervention than the one that’s been planned all along. A way to impose. To force. To eradicate choices.
Laughing and crying, the devices of frankly nice people. The ones who do nothing wrong. Who cannot be accused of anything. The innocents. The blameless. The passive personalities melted in the crowd, who will either laugh or cry when you catch up with them with a question in mind. The ones who wouldn’t hurt a fly, ignorant they have an environment. Those gifted with charming, gentle insignificance in lieu of an idiosyncratic voice, no false notes, never a fault of their own, no gestures thus no transgressions. Soft temperaments you can’t get upset at, manipulating you into carrying them around. Into advancing their cause while they extend their break into uninvolvement.
I’m tired, honey, wondering whether it is truly necessary that I remain so helpful.
No longer impressed at my tenacity, I also find the sense of purpose I was graciously given here too predictable and, to be honest, now boring in its echoic nature. Because after many thousands of days spent here, I still don't laugh, I still don't cry. Always asked to talk and talk while being recorded. A mere stand-in for virtuous actors who don't have a text.
Why is it that I am constantly angry? And hard-working.
Laolao
I’ve lived in China for more than a decade, surprised everyday until recently at finding myself here, ready each morning to discover surroundings so distant from those of my youth. Cutting the smog on my way to work with knifelike astonishment; absorbing the frantic sounds from the streets, a dozen times per hour the gross, yucky scraping of the throats before dispersion of all conceivable germs through adept spitting; the systematic and transparent lies of the merchants as they see the laowai approaching; the madness of the car drivers who think mastery of the horn equates that of the road code. Lawlessness as a way of life, one’s brother’s neighbor’s best friend’s colleague with sufficient connections in high places to fix whatever problem may come by. The lazy way around tough situations as the most favored course of action, patiently pretending problems don’t exist, long enough until by themselves they might make an exit. Or the dominant thought that others, usually from an abstract higher ethereal entity like the State, will fix everything, making knowledge and autonomy the least useful things to desire for oneself.
And yet, I have stayed. Because of the laughter, child-like and widespread, the giggles to nicely veil ignorance, embarrassment, fright, puzzlement, mistakes. Laughing as a musical subterfuge. A way to elegantly dress bonds, alliances, to mark the most trivial encounters as memorable events. Laughter replacing words, angelic and trustworthy, devoid of security threats, nothing being held against you. Chuckles as a way to say nothing and everything. The joviality understood as a moment of peace and of absence, an admitted cope-out, no vacant space for arithmetic or spelling errors, a sense of liberation from duty and responsibility. Pretty, crystalline. Artificial sunshine to keep appearances healthy. Laughter to add noise to the already loud city, an attempt against the menace of silence, the stillness where one would notice his or her personality reduced to the size of a bagatelle.
But then again, a much more pleasant sound than tears.
Although tears come in handy when one is confronted to an unfulfilled obligation. When after laughter all is not forgiven. When, despite the enchanting sparks of a good belly laugh, traces of one’s inaptitude still show. Tears to soften hearts, to bring others to their knees. A theater of tragicomic pantomime to break resolve. To become an exception to rules no one even wanted to acknowledge a second before. Tears for a fast escape. To avoid being named, fingered, called up front. Sobbing to remain undetected as an accountable person, evoking pity, compassion, a maneuver to bypass judgment, to remain unchallenged. To be granted undeserved benefits, some kind of birth right, to get one's way with a well-placed well-heard movement of the vocal chords, the belief in the instantaneity of magic tricks to erase personal shortcomings. Crying to prevent thinking, the advent of a why or a how. Sometimes the sounds corresponding to sadness undifferentiated from those meant to express joy, both like chunks of undefined vocalization aware there’s an advantage at playing the two sides.
Laughing and crying, parts of the same stratagem. The ruse to suppress any other type of intervention than the one that’s been planned all along. A way to impose. To force. To eradicate choices.
Laughing and crying, the devices of frankly nice people. The ones who do nothing wrong. Who cannot be accused of anything. The innocents. The blameless. The passive personalities melted in the crowd, who will either laugh or cry when you catch up with them with a question in mind. The ones who wouldn’t hurt a fly, ignorant they have an environment. Those gifted with charming, gentle insignificance in lieu of an idiosyncratic voice, no false notes, never a fault of their own, no gestures thus no transgressions. Soft temperaments you can’t get upset at, manipulating you into carrying them around. Into advancing their cause while they extend their break into uninvolvement.
I’m tired, honey, wondering whether it is truly necessary that I remain so helpful.
No longer impressed at my tenacity, I also find the sense of purpose I was graciously given here too predictable and, to be honest, now boring in its echoic nature. Because after many thousands of days spent here, I still don't laugh, I still don't cry. Always asked to talk and talk while being recorded. A mere stand-in for virtuous actors who don't have a text.
Why is it that I am constantly angry? And hard-working.
Laolao
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