14 March 2016

Prostration and Nostalgia


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低头思故乡
A chink doesn’t get a lot of chances to feel like a chink that doesn’t sell out. That’s why a chink writes on food. It’s the one thing that can remind a chink of being back home in 婆婆’s or 奶奶’s 家. It’s the one thing that a chink has that can remind him that the whiteman hasn’t shoved his cock down it and forced the chink to gag on his cracker cum and denounce his heritage. A chink understands what the Cantonese went through and a chink applauds them for the fight. But, no matter what a chink will NEVER feel like a chink eating canto food or Sichuan food or any kind of food besides the food that every single fucking chink in a chink’s family can make with their fumanchus blindfolding their squinty eyes and their degenerating pancreases fed by ancient broscience balls of chink medicine, or, colloquially, shaped horseshit enclosed by rubber cases impossible to fucking open.

So it’s a revelation when a chink can find something that’s close to where he’s from, even if that thing is for all intensive purpose completely different. A chink hated Chinatowns for the longest part of his life and quite frankly all other chinks and anything that reminded a chink that he was a chink. But, of what is past, or passing, or to come, a chink has been a chink. And there’s nothing changing that because all a chink can see is the blanched people out there.

In recent years and weeks and books, a chink now cares more. Because a chink recognizes that a chink shouldn’t hate himself for being a chink. That a chink ever has to feel that way is shitty. That people remind a chink that he’s not not a chink is shitty. That no chinks speak out, or can speak out about this because it’s not a thing chinks do is shitty. That a chink is a chink, in all honesty, is shitty.

That’s why a chink believes in some sort of North American dislocated Chink pride. That’s why a chink is angry. Because what does a chink have in life to be happy being a chink for? The culture? No, the culture is broken in China and it has been broken. Any cursory glance of Confucianism or Taoism of any form of traditional practice is broken. The only thing a chink has to be proud of being a chink is the idea that there’s something connecting a chink to what he is. Something good at least, because it seems that there’s so little of that.

That white people can look at China and say the culture is so diverse and rich is shitty. That a white man can be in a position to look on a chink’s country and tell a chink that it’s beautiful is sad. A chink will never be reminded of this by their parents. To an older generation, China is a land of forced communes, of shitty people, shitty lives, and shitty history. That a white man can look on it that way

China for all intensive purposes is a cesspool. There is so little about China that’s so beautiful or so venerable. China is a fractured wind that’s connected by forced breeding and a history of barbarism. It’s a wind that breaks every chink that tries to unify it.

It’s a wind that will bring a chink back home.

And that wind is food is incomparable. It’s a wind that a chink doesn’t want to share with you because a chink doesn’t even have it himself. It’s a wind a chink begrudgingly lets a white man feel because a white man won’t feel it. It’ll be wasted. And a chink is selfish. A chink is racist. A chink is protective. Because for a chink, it’s a finite wind away from home.  

So when a white man encroaches, a chink hopes that they Grate on their scrannel Pipes of wretched straw as the hungry Sheep look up, and are not fed, but swollen with wind, and the rank mist they draw, rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread.

So when a chink takes a whiteboi to a chink restaurant with the wind, the whiteboi better appreciate it.


A chink took whiteboi simon to a Xi’an restaurant last Friday. For the last two days, a chink didn’t have time to eat, so a chink was operating on an empty stomach, unwept, and welter to the parching wind, without the meed of som melodious tear.

Five times have past, five dinners. This time, the owner was not there. The waitress did not recognize me. The food did not please me as it should have. The noodles weren’t spicy enough, the  did not entice me enough, the 羊肉泡was not enough, the was forgotten. The atmosphere was gutted. I could have tried to quell the senses cooled with pungent sauces, multiply variety in a wilderness of mirrors, but it didn’t work. The sauce was not penetrative enough. The 凉皮was not incisive enough.

And sometimes that’s the way it works for a chink. Sometimes there’s no magic in the food. Sometimes the food is hollow. Sometimes, a chink is just the tenant of a house
            Gulled against the wind, in the windy straits

Thoughts of a dry brain in a dry season.

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