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Shanghai—17 August 2010:
Art, Music, and Female Genital Mutilation

—1—

Guó pò shān hé zài ...

(The) country (is) broken, mountains (and) rivers remain ...

(Dù Fǔ)

Jiān shān niǎo fēi jué ...

Thousands (of) mountains, birds fly not at all ...

Lǎo de shīrén, old Chinese poets, word paintings. But where are the new ones?

The girl in the bookstore smiled and said, "Bù hǎo," or "(They're) no good."

They are also, like the birds of Liǔ Zōngyuán's poem, nowhere to be seen. To make an oblique reference, T² did that. So what do the middle schoolers memorize now?

Did life, poetry, and love end in a pea garden in the Qing Dynasty? I don't think so, but the "Misty" ones drifted away, no longer welcome in the homeland, gù yuán: Bù fù huán (not come back).

De la musique avant tout chose ...

Music before everything else ...

Different artistic values. The image of the cold water—hán jiāng xuě—and the sound of water flowing—plus vague et plus soluble dans l'aire.

Bù tóng de mǐngǎnxìng: sensibilité different.

Or no sensibility: Consider female genital mutilation. "They put us in the bathroom, held our legs open, and cut something," recollects an Iraqi woman.

There is also breast "ironing," where the young girls breasts are pounded until the tissue is destroyed and the breasts do not develop. If you think crushing flowers or tearing the wings off butterflies is fun—like drowning kittens?—wait till you try this! Better than bastinado.

Wàn jìng rén zōng miè ...

Ten-thousand paths (but the) tracks of people (are) erased....

Peace in the snow. A vision of a silent world: hán jiāng xuě (cold river snow).

Sans rien en lui qui pèse ou pose.

With nothing in it that weighs down or poses.

Just music. Et le bleu fouillis des claire étoiles! (And the blue jumble of the clear stars!)

—2—

But no peace in the Land of the Mutilators:

His erection is his erection;
It brings her no pleasure.
His conquest is his conquest;
She has already been defeated;
Two old women in a bathroom
Cut it out in the name of the Great One.

Ifritah ... mashallah ... blade ... blood ... evil thing no more ...

But they left her with breasts.

Nuhad ... Nǐ hǎo! ... veiled Barbies ... iToys4iBoys® ...

Breastless there might be no erection, and no milk for the thirsty mouth of the Cum One, the Chosen One from the sea of turbulent scum.

She is a deaf instrument,
One that does not hear its own music.
The vibrations, the passion are his alone.

But the wedding party was not bombed, and old uncles went to the shrine, prayed on mats, and returned home. A miracle on Marid Mountain.

Blessed be the name.
Blessed be the name of the One.
Blessed be the name of the One too risky to name.

But if for some reason she does not like having her pelvis pounded like a punching bag or her tits sucked like that of a cow, she gets a lesson she won't soon forget: Her nose and ears cut off with a knife. All in the name of the Great One, of course.

The Heart of Darkness is a bright light in the Black Hole of the Great One. Marlow's light shines.

And blessed be the names of those not too risky to name.

Blessed be the name of bullrider Cody Montana, known to the IRS as Steve Snyder, whose only desire is to remain on the back of the bull eight seconds before he is thrown.

And blessed be the name of the bull, Red-Eyed Devil, known to his handlers as "#15, Some Cautions Required," whose only desire is to throw Cody, and any other rider, in the dirt as fast as possible.

And blessed by the name of Angel Baby, aka Cathy Cummings, whose only desire is to bring customers as much pleasure as possible  in one hour and be paid for it.

And blessed by the name of All Customers who treat Angel Baby with respect and pay her well.

And blessed be the name of Anyone
Who treats Any Other One
With kindness and respect,
Forgoing a superior attitude,
And enjoys having a good time
All the way around
Without trying to surgically remove
Any Other One's organs of pleasure.

And damned be the names
Of all those joyless souls
Who plot to kill the innocent
So as to cause pain and suffering
To those who know and love them;
The ali al al Kha Kha Menei
Maniac Murder-her Monster Mutilators.

And damned be the names of all those old men,
And young men who are really old men in spirit,
Who sit on prayer mats in rooms without light or love
And praise the name of the Great One
Who is really the Damned One and the Destroyer of Souls,
Chanting words they do not understand,
The dogma of dog-men, fearful of mind and thought.

The neo-Nazi in clericical cloak has had his day turning ancient ritual and dead thought into the here and now of blood-soacked rags. He thinks the Great One is pleased.

And damned be those, stone in hand,
Who would break the flesh, crush the bones, and smash the teeth
Of those who experience pleasures they deny themselves,
Based on ancient canons that enslave
Mind and body in living death.

And damn Anyone who would send Someone to jail
For a kiss while praising Another for murder.

—3—

Nǎo pò méi yǒu zài.

Mind shattered, nothing remains.

De la maladie sur tout.

Sickness over everything.

Blood of the earth flows into the sea,
Malade, malade, BP.
Drone death in the northwest,
Pakistan floods, all is unrest.

Chéng chūn cǎo mù shēn ...

City Spring, (the) grass (and) trees (are) thick ...

Paint the picture, listen for the song.

Et pour cela préfère l'Impair ...

And for this prefer the odd ...

Like the murmur of a heart in an empty room; a full moon seen in a broken mirror; a kiss without lips but warm and wet and wonderful; arms that embrace but do not bind; you there in a dream more real than broken promises; all men lined up in a row, armed ducks, quack, quack, quack, leading them to a gallery; comic books, peep holes; fog on the beach; waffles aglow in the snow, Oh, no!  ...

Plus vague et plus soluble dans l'aire ...

More vague and more soluble in air ...

Water, whirls, those dancing girls; willows, wands, worthless bonds; musicians, magicians, maledictions, morticians; a little stream of water running down the hill; a rising river of blood;

god is a great ape, aping;

backed up sewer pipes ready to burst, bursting;

god is a great ape;

and in the tree a nesting Coo Coo; cock-a-doodle do, Sun Yat-sen, the light of the Kuomingtang shines through;

god is;

and what has been lost has been found when I take off my shoe;

god isn't;

but don't ask for more, Al Gore; I gave you all by the wall and you left it there;

god;

THE MASSAGE IS OVER,

damn.

Over, over;

The message was not understood.

Rein de plus cher que la chanson grise ...

Nothing fancier, says Verlaine, than the dull, gray song, la chanson grise, where the indecisive joins together with the precise—Ou l'Indécis au Précis se joint.

Huī de gē ...

But did he really mean that?

It is the beautiful eyes behind the veil, the day trembling at noon, the jumble—fouillis—hùndùn—of clear stars in a cool Autumn sky.
 
It is art and music in a universe free to vibrate in its own sensuous way. Let the light of Badr-al-Budur shine like a jewel.

 
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