(in response to the emotional soundness of Ma Lan's 'The Red Dress, ' which romps through her socio-emotional history in a vein of home-grown feminist dada; ...)
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The declivity of the stream bed snatches away the passing water... won't allow it to remain in an expanding moment with the purling sounds.
Soon the stream bed's tug becomes brawling rapids and there is no more random dilation of tinkles, just a roaring onrush.
It makes no difference if the stream beds are rooted in flesh to constitute a spiral bract of interwoven dopamine ladders.
It makes no difference if the onrushing waterfall shapes a wall of self-forgetting discourse.
It makes no difference which spark starts a wildfire, which atom starts a chain reaction...
Momentum will have its say, and indeterminacy will be dealt with by coalescence of structure at other levels.
The important thing is the primacy of the river channel's tug in a local sense,
no matter how much of human nature is forgotten or re-appropriated along with the passing scenery.
But the symbol of the red dot remains elegant due to the awkwardness of alternately being the rider and the mount of passion,
which is transposed to emotional savviness that subsumes both the theoretical and the anatomical.
There was a time I could not hold discourse with people who spoke in highly condensed idea clusters
because their laboratories had boosted them to the rocketry level while I was still improvising my first few steps.
I could not catch a vibe and go along for that ride, but eventually I learned to fly after my own fashion, even though the price was being alone.
Whatever else one says about the red dot, 'it will never leave people alone' (which is true in more than one way) ;
It has always remained accessible to whomever is going to be marked.
It has always mobilized one's circulation, imparting an emotional charge to the phenomenological marker of thought's colorless dot.
What I really want to say is that the red dot makes an interesting poem.
At least you can see that it had sufficient force to jab the above dot of ranting out of me.
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** And here is a machine translation of Ma Lan's poem 'A Red Dress':
A RED DRESS
Everything is perfect,23 1/2 degrees, no air conditioning, no heating. Humidity is also normal, no need to use a blower. Two rooms and one hall in the house, front and rear balcony. Work is moving towards a uniform speed movement, age between the years of the tiger and wolf. The attitude of speaking mixed with the speed of flirtation. Today is a new day full of sunshine except for a skirt with red spots. My lover, you must have seen it a thousand miles away, today is indeed a new day, self-evident.
We do not prove ourselves.
The skirt is pure black, original price $280, discounted up to $89. Another 10 percent was deducted when the money was delivered. Look how beautiful life is.
The dress is woven straight from a smooth, gentle umbrella fabric. This is the style you like. The cuteness of the skirt is manifested in the zipper from the middle of the collar to the navel, and then a horizontal zipper to split the skirt in two. So the top half of the skirt became a skirtless t-shirt. This is a dress that can show.
Suddenly a red dot appears on the back of the skirt. You don't know where the red dot comes from. You speculate it flew in from the window and got it on the skirt. Or the red dot has already been ambushed in the house, the humidity of the air has reached a certain level, and the dust should be removed to red dust. It's as if you see red dust flying in the low sky with golden light, then ruthlessly destroying the perfection of the skirt. You judge that the red dot is very big, the red dot is revolutionary and holds the mission of subversion. There is no free dinner in the world. Discounted skirts come at a discount price.
The meaning of red can be infinite, like a drop of water seeing the sun, a leaf knowing autumn. The red dot expands into a red cloth, blindfolded and insulated from light. The red dot is the cinnacle of Indian women's eyebrows, representing beautiful youth. Red bears the sign of the first night of a woman, red knife sees red.
Red is a strong color, red turns black red. Red is the ability of Han culture to tolerate, a huge foreskin, dancing at a speed, and even your nature and your home have been lost, and you can't go back to your hometown, ah, hometown.
The red dot is still expanding quietly, the spark of the stars, the black dress is changing color. Nothing is impossible to change.
Red can be said to be black is red, at least red will and historical hatred. Red dots on your skirt with a fresh holiday atmosphere. Red is more striking than black and makes us lonely. Red and other colors have an exaggerated effect. We live in an exaggerated society, transformation is exaggeration.
Red dots most likely start from your heart, with heart blood, a red heart, no matter preparation. As long as it is red, the desert becomes an oasis, the earth turns upside down, hate becomes love, love becomes hate. One in a lifetime, two in a lifetime.
You hang your skirt on the wall, red to declare independence stand still. The ceiling slowly grows into a giant shadow on top of your head, a net of earth. As if you were a red passerby. Red dots are like liberating flowers, the crowd is running around under the red watch, turning the earth upside down, everyone is fragile, like paper scraps with the wind. And you're just talking about these language questions about red dots on a dress. You believe red dots have memories, red dots gasp.
The red dot happens inside a black dress, this is a real problem of eye vision, and has nothing to do with the customs of the Wei, Jin and North Dynasties. There is no red flag in the Wei Jin and Northern Dynasties. Only prostitutes and poets flirting openly, only drunkards and aphrodisiacs.
You make the most hypocritical decision of your life, wipe out the red dot and root out the confusion.
When you start washing, first use the soil method, the rice is pressed into a small mass on the red dot, keep rushing, the red dot is still the same. You soak in water again, still can't wash it out. You put your hopes on gas. Gasoline will hit the target. But at the critical moment your hands are soft, 'Why are the flowers so red? ' Gasoline flies to the sofa. There's a cigarette on the couch and you have to carry water to put out the petrol, according to the theory of incompatibilities
A pot of pig feet you cook gives a scorching smell in the gap you deal with burning gasoline. The candles on the table, however, are thunderous, like a gust of breeze, blowing towards the sofa. Everything is in a mess. Everything was accidentally destroyed. Event after event, finally it's all over.
The skirt is shrouded in the firelight, even more bright.
You put your skirt on the bed and watch it with a magnifying glass. You can't see why. The red dot is like this, not shrinking or increasing, just stained on the back of the skirt, as a decoration for your skirt, looking at you, depend on you.
You can be disdainful. We learn not to care.
But the red dots hold me down. The reasons need not be explained. I decided not to go out again, stuck inside. This red dot of unknown origin will stay with me for the rest of my life and bury me. I hugged it and eventually turned into a bigger red dot.
2000,4
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
everything is easy going but the red dot remains exceptional at everything's central point. greatly writting about the red dot. thanks for inviting to read the poem.