Sensuality

I know that I am looking for something. I know it because sometimes when I see something on film, or I happen to be observing something (and seldom, or is it me just trying to be romantic, when I'm in the midst of something. I love brackets though. You can dump whatever you want in them and anything does. Except for the poor reader.)

God knows how much my life has been influenced by art. I'm not an artist. I don't caress ivory keys, or pluck brass strings, and my aptitude in drawing shows in the middle alphabets of the English alphabet in my record card. In fact, I was just trying to write some verses the other day about my whole ineptitude in the entire thing (before deciding that writing about nothing was indeed inept, if not futile). Well, for the heck of it, because I felt I hadn't made one in a long time.

But take away all that. Take how you felt when you read the Bible, or the Little Prince, or any book or film which subconciously became a canon for your moral imagination. Take a song, how it made you feel, take a hymn even, take some ambience and you have something with which you can scaffold a belief.

And then I realise at this moment that when people say "art for the sake of art", or it being some matter of technique or refinement (sure, be good at what you do), and start seeing themselves at artists, that sometimes they get too carried away and well isn't that supposed to be the case, they're artists, let them be.

Of course I say all this because I just watched a film. Because of the English domination of the computer world (do you see any Chinese characters on my keyboard), coupled with my laziness to try to input Chinese characters, or rather, correct them from changing into gibberish in html (yes I guess I've tried it before, and would you please write in shorter sentences, you know talking to yourself isn't healthy, i love commas), I am unable to write "Zhou Yu's train" in its rightful pictographic characters. I can only tell you that it involved trains (duh), which I so dearly love, whenever I travel, and beautiful Chinese rural landscape, and even a bit of industrial one. It involved Gong Li, who inspired the title of this post. It involved a poet, who as most poets choose to see themselves, and rightly so, is a dreamer. Now, as we all know, dreamers are horrible at living. They end up with screwed up jobs, get sent to Tibet (well its not bad, the air is fresh), and are utterly irresponsible towards their loved ones. But they are excused because they write beautifully, and he ends up with the hot chick. And he is not bad at making love, if the cinematography is meant to led you to believe he is.

But no, it's not that simple. Because the woman in love with the artist is also artistic, is she not. She recognises that he is crazy, and to love a crazy person, well, then you must be crazy too. And she does everything to get him published. Maybe there is nothing artistic in being a potter (well she does draw some lovely designs on porcelain glassware), but let me tell you, it is really artistic to take the train two ways for 24 hours every weekend to make love. And it's in the attitude, I guess, to run to find a lake on a whim, to take a train to see nobody simply because it reminds you of the journey that you so love, and just to long, not to be fulfilled.

difficult stuff, huh. and of course there's the really good guy who is a vet and gets by and is really nice, but he'll never win her heart because unluckily, he didn't come first. but i like him, but do you think he cares? how childish it is to love one person your whole life? and there are people like that? and what do they do then. they love? what is it to love?

and i just needed to say, i know, i am looking for something. barring st anthony, i'll take some time, thank you. but it's my time. and i love the train journey, not the station, really. there's nothing better in this world than hope.