apocalypse, Chris Marker and my craving for a beach barbeque

it's been a long time since I last posted something here. Studio has gone a long long way from mid term to final. But my life and experience did not accelerate accordingly - they are just remarkably slow in proceeding forward.

London London! After counting down for studio final it is time for a London countdown. I get there on the 22nd June and start working in the lonely city on the 3rd July. the city's 'high Modern' flavor notwithstanding, it is actually quite archaic - its language (the persistent use of the word 'surname', as opposed to last name, often sends a chill up my spine), food (either indian or shepherd pies. Food for barbarians) and metabolism (which is, to me, noted for that strange, unique sense of viscosity) could easily put me into a deep, contemplative melancholy. Afterall, it is a city of black trenchcoats and black umbrellas. But as usual, I will be forced to anticipate, enthusiastically, yet another great adventure and sweep all my unnecessary apprehensions aside. But since when did Cambridge feel so much like a safe haven to me?

I cannot help but to think that the semester is approaching an apocalyptic stage again. Perhaps not so much for the school itself - afterall, it is a system that flourishes upon annual regeneration. For me, however, it feels like everything has to be razed down to ground zero - an apartment that I finally got myself acquainted to, a breathtaking view that delivers the 'sublime' at my disposal, a friendly neighborhood... all these memories, along with my nomad gears, will be swept into a 5x7 cell and left ferment for 6 months in a building that seems infinite . Until then I will harness my sentiments onto something/someone/somewhere else.

To construct a Self that I am not in order to shelter myself - that is my ultimate architectural aspiration. Want to see my latest construction/ fabrication?

2 weeks in Hong Kong, I hope, will serve well as a buffer between two intense experiences. My latest discovery on my travel agenda informs me that I will not be able to attend John's wedding - what a shame. It could very well evolve into the worst, and thus the most entertaining, wedding of the 21st century. What strikes me is not only the level of organization/disorganization which is, as far as I know, literally unheard of, but also the cast that will participate in this act of sheer baffoonery: a 42 year-old virgin who refuses to grow up is marrying a 41 year-old accountant who has probably grown up too much. To me it sounds very much like a 17 year-old marrying a 61 year-old, or a monkey trying on a gorilla's suit.

And I pray to god that no one is reading this.

Should I consider myself lucky, that I already have a long list of visitors in London well before the trip actually starts? Steph's arrival will be quite exciting but I am a little concerned that the responsibility of figuring out the 'logistics' would fall upon me. For no fewer than 20 times I have helped people to join with each other but this will be my first time helping them to avoid each other. This sense of contrived poignancy hurts my head often. And Sophia, my fellow nomad, will be passing by as well. I am particularly intrigued by the possible visit of Hannah - afterall we have only briefly exchanged a few words in Kyoto. Of course, as the cliche goes, 'in the age of internet....' yet still, how often does that happen anyway?

For no apparent reason whatsoever I have been craving for Chris Marker's Sans Soleil lately. Checked on Amazon and lo and behold, there it is. A compilation of Le Jetee and Sans Soleil - a perfect antidote to my curious ailment. But the antidote comes in expensive - $60.30, or the equivalent of 4 decent meals at a restaurant. Unfortunately the calculation does not go that way, not quite. Those 4 meals mean a whole life to me, particularly in the times of apocalypse when everything is slipping through my hands like a full handful of sand.

Speaking of sand, I wonder if I could somehow organize a beach barbeque with a few friends of mine. Too bad I am in this hell profession, in which no one, not even one, has time to prepare a decent piece of steak for barbeque. Well, does anyone still do that? it is such an 80s thing. I recall Uncle Pat's greasy right hand holding a chicken wing and his greasy left hand holding a barbeque skewer. Everything was then wrapped in a black and white silk polo shirt, a pair of grey suit pants, a pair of cheap Spanish leather shoes (with a tiny copper plate stitched on the right side, and a pair of rubber soles that looks very much misplaced), a fake Rolex and tied together by a goldlion leather belt. Speaking of contrived poignancy one must not leave out the vivid memories of the 80s.