Nuanshui Village, RI

Minor update: Dinner Parties from the Past has been visited, both on purpose and by accident, by people from 11 countries/regions, including 11 states within the US! I've only been in 3 places in the past 2 months, so it definitely can't all be me. Yippee!

After meaning (and meaning well) to blog about something towards the end of September, I faced some consistent failures in my self confidence to do so. To make up for it, I will attempt to draw one anecdote of my non-academic life to delve into some deeper issues that I must explore to greater depth during the course of my Revolutionary Masterpiece.

At some point in the past two weeks, I have felt like a pre-1949 Chinese peasant. After working a total of 81.25 hours in the timespan of one month, I was looking forward to that envelope in my mailbox that had that cheque made out to my name more than anything. However, when payday rolled around, what I found in my mailbox disappointed me greatly--the amount was significantly lower than what I was owed.

Confused and panicky, as my rent was due at the end of the month, I dodged several symbols of capitalist affluence (a BMW, an entire sandwich that had fallen on the ground and a girl with a Longchamp bag texting away on her iPhone 4) as I ran down the street in my holed jeans and sneakers that have suffered from overuse, and finally arrived at the employment office. I told a representative of my concerns as politely as I could, huffing and puffing like an old horse who has worked in the fields her whole life and has never had a rest, and was hit rather harshly by the bureaucratic elements of the system. Apparently, as a lowly worker, I was not allowed to discuss the issue until I had filled out a long and incomprehensible form.

If we pause my story here and introduce Zhang Yumin (from The Sun Shines over the Sanggan River 太阳照在桑干河上by Ding Ling) to my university campus, I would have expected to be pulled aside into a dark basement of a colonial building, and inducted into a group of bewildered employees and told that we have been being exploited, and now needed to revolt against the system and take back what belongs to to us.

I would have been very overwhelmed with emotion that someone would take the time to care about whether or not I am being exploited. It is indeed a great signal towards self-affirmation.

Of course, I would not dare compare my minor plight with the poor conditions of peasants in China pre-land reforms. But I just wanted to bring up the point that appropriations of land reform methodology is possible and probably (as brought up in my Revolutionary Masterpiece), in a variety of different situations, including in an American liberal arts college in 2010.

Maybe the resonance of Communist ideology will catch up to us all, one day.

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Note: my "Revolutionary Masterpiece" will henceforth refer to that great big chunk of text I'm in the process of writing. It is known more officially as my Honors Thesis for the Department of History at my higher education institution, but I think "Revolutionary Masterpiece" has a better spin to it.

Strait Chat # 1: Origins

Strait Talk will be launching our new program Strait Chat tomorrow evening, titled Strait Chat: Origins. I came up with the title. I thought it was pretty clever.

I'll also be coming up with the opening remarks and the facilitation questions, so right now I am in the middle of a period of deep contemplation regarding what is the best way to introduce the historical background of a conflict.

This is a question, I think, for many questions in history--how do we talk about what needs to be talked about, in a way that makes it clear that it needs to be talked about, without marginalising sides or viewpoints and other, less salient things that also need to be talked about?

My job for tomorrow night is to frame the origins and the historical context of why there are disputes and animosity between mainland China and Taiwan to the present today to a group of bright college students who will be hopefully interested in what I have to say (which is really encouraging, by the way, considering my lack of a PhD), but will all show up with varying degrees of expertise on the subject matter. It's pretty overwhelming being in an "educator" position for once (and so unexpectedly soon), so let's try to get this right.

Hopefully, by the end of the discussion, we will be able to get to some of the concerns I have about the simplicity and reductive qualities of the current unification vs. succession debate.

More reflections on all of this later.

Check out www.straittalk.org for applications, organisational details and contact information.

Humans and Monsters, Life and Death, Forgiveness and Retribution: Revised

While working on promotional materials for Feng Xiaogang's Aftershock 唐山大地震 movie this summer, I encountered and interviewed a series of movie-goers who had exited the cinema on the film's opening night with red-rimmed eyes yet oddly optimistic faces. Having chosen not to watch the movie that evening due to my preference to not be seen crying in public, I listened intently to the comments and attempted to imagine what could have caused these audience members to become so emotional.

Many of those that I talked to compared Aftershock to Lu Chuan's 2009 film, A City of Life and Death 南京！南京！. Aha, I thought, this was, incidentally, a movie that I had seen. I recalled this movie review that I had written for Lu's film last year, so I dug it up, revamped it a little bit, and reposted it, so that all this may be fresh in my memory when I do see Aftershock, preferably curled up in my bed and off a dvd on my laptop computer.

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If a 'good movie' is one where the director has successfully accomplished what he/she has set out to do, in the limited time that the director has to do it in, then audiences must be aware and accepting of the director's intentions and philosophy behind each film before making a judgement on its relative worth. But for movies whose themes are so steeped in historical controversy, it may be difficult to reconcile the need to recognise the creator's artistic intentions as being 'good'.

Lu Chuan’s 2009 movie, City of Life and Death (or Nanjing! Nanjing! by its Chinese translation) attacks a time of historical controversy with a view and a mission that has never been attempted before. The director wants to depict the Japanese soldiers as people, not as insane monsters, because seeing them as people can take away any excuses that could be made on their behalf to behave so brutally. Our society is inclined to pity and excuse those who are not in their right state of mind for any crimes they commit—in legal systems across the world, for example, a convicted ‘insane’ person’s sentence is never as harsh as one who is in his/her ‘right frame of mind’. We can justifiably agree that in most historical sources created by the Chinese and the Allies from the Sino-Japanese War and the Second World War, from 1937—1945, play up the sub-human, demonic qualities of the Japanese soldiers and even the Japanese race in general, a gross generalisation about a nation that has been spared of Japan’s German and Nazi allies.

We can somewhat assess that never has the Japanese military been given a fair chance of actually being represented as human beings, as opposed to the common demonisations of ‘monkey-men’ or ‘devils’ trained to massacre. Maybe it’s time to try out something different, thinks Lu, because soldiers are just humans trained in the art of war, and here, given a licence and a blueprint to kill.

And Lu carries out his task well. From one angle, the soldiers play soccer and joke with each other in their spare time, however, the very same humans are also responsible for the massacres that the camera unflinchingly shows us. The cold-blooded, logical and steady-handed killings that the Japanese soldiers instigate throughout the film are just that much more brutal because of their methodological and very much sane actions. Even in the scenes with the soldiers’ encounters with comfort women, it’s not the lust-crazed, monstrous appetites that drive the soldiers to demand Chinese women to be given up for sexual services—they are marched to the soldiers calmly, set up in tents with curtains to separate the ‘cubicles’, and those alive are returned three weeks later.

It’s all business. In fact, all except for one emotionally-scarred Sergeant, the Japanese are content to freely transform and alternate between being free-spirited, happy young men, to cold-blooded killing machines. Through an interesting character foil, the Nazi businessman John Rabe is compassionate to the point where he sheds tears at his inability to do more for the Chinese refugees, twisting our views again on another popular WWII enemy.

So why, then, has there still been so much controversy surrounding the depiction of Japanese soldiers in this film? The criticism that Lu Chuan faces from some of the movie’s Chinese viewers is that he has been too nice to the Japanese, and doesn’t do the massacre justice. Is it the sympathetic portrayal of the Sergeant Kadokawa, who sets free two captured Chinese soldiers before committing suicide at the end of the film? He, like the Chinese refugees, is trapped between the city walls of Nanjing and the unrelenting Japanese military, and can only conceive of one way out.

It could be this one soldier, who denies us a clear-cut view of the typical Japanese militaryman that has been ingrained into this generation’s consciousness for as long as we can remember. Or, maybe there’s something else that’s underlying here that seems to overlook the overwhelming brutality that the portrayal of Japanese soldiers depict, completely engulfing Kadokawa’s lonesome outlier. The Nanjing Massacre is no doubt a sensitive topic in the history of both China and Japan, and because of this has escaped a formal and comprehensive historical re-evaluation in terms of what it means

This lies, in part, at the ‘national’ nature of the conflict. It is no longer one army’s misdoing to another’s civilians, a war crime defined as in any international justice system, the enduring conflict has instead escalated into one nation’s crime against another, passed on from one generation onto the other. Over a billion people feel emotionally connected and involved in this conflict. Some are content with keeping the issue of Nanjing at bay and at polar ends of an unforgiving spectrum, where demands of apologies and forgiveness from the Japanese nation are made and fundamental questions of numbers and historical inaccuracies cannot be solved.

Keeping the proverbial skeleton inside the national closet and not allowing for the underlying conflicts to be ‘solved’ can help to prevent anything more potent or horrific to happen again, but it also limits the lens from which we can view others, and especially the other. It is hard, especially for those Chinese who have been personally or directly affected by the violence in Nanjing, to instantly shake off images and opinions of the Japanese that have been the discourse for decades, but by Lu Chuan’s reasoning, let’s calm down a little and try not to demonise the enemy. They were but human beings, even of a different nation, and the key to dealing with the past lies in thinking of them as such.

Falun Gong: A Decade of Distressing, Disgusting Images

It did not seem excessive at the time that I, aged seven, had watched a hour or so of a television screening of The Silence of the Lambs. In 1996, seasoned from years of watching violence on television in critically acclaimed beheading scenes such as in The Romance of the Three Kingdoms 《三国演义》and not really understanding English enough anyway to grasp the full horrors of cannibalism, I was a lot less impressionable than a kid my age would have expected to be.

The lack of a enforced and effective ratings system in Chinese media is something striking for a society usually deemed by the modern world to be conservative. While censorship is rampant in enforcing bans, especially when it comes to sexually explicit material, there are no real or imaginary distinctions between films and television appropriate for children or those that are not. News and entertainment alike attempt to be as provocative as possible, and perhaps for purposes of misguided notions of 'freedom', all are allowed and welcomed to engage with the media's messages and images.

I am often horrified at the gritty bits of Chinese movies, the depictions of severed limbs, corpses, torture... Even the fairy tale stories I had listened more closely resembled the morose themes of Hans Christian Andersen and the Brother's Grimm and not the Disney dilutions of my Western counterparts. Today's Me is impressed at Younger Me's ability to be so okay with the intense violence of those 1960s Chinese propaganda operas that I loved so much.

My thoughts turned the direction of these issues of tolerance and appropriateness a few days ago, after emerging from Mongkok East MTR Station in Hong Kong. In typical semi-liberal atmosphere, a group of Falun Gong supporters had set up a display on the footpath leading up to the mall. This wasn't surprising--after the Chinese ban on the Falun Gong movement in 1999 in the mainland, practitioners and sympathisers have since taken extensive measures to ensure that the rest of the world is well-informed about the Communist Party's mistreatment of Falun Gong practitioners. I remember walking past a a man lying on a hospital bed on the streets of Causeway Bay, as another in a white lab coat stood next to the bed with a set of surgical tools. Both men remained unmoving as passersby took in this representation of the CCP's alleged organ harvesting experiments on detained Falun Gong practitioners, before making them 'disappear'.

Check out this link for an image (for purposes of appropriate content on this blog, I shall not post the picture here): http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3097/2705076795_b1e7c82aa4.jpg

As desensitised as I am to Falun Gong's claims of human rights abuses, from both my academic research and interactions with people on both sides of the conflict, I was not prepared for what I saw in Mongkok that day. While most Falun Gong posterboards that I have seen in Sydney and Boston were mostly in the form of text and any images were indistinct and hard to make out, the Hong Kong branch seemed to have made the most of digital imaging technology. The first thing I was confronted with was a distinctive, A3-sized photograph (and two others taken from different angles) of a naked man lying in a foetal position after being subject to some kind of anal torture.

The second thing was the heartbreaking sight of a young girl, old enough to be just learning to read, staring intently at one of the other posterboards, trying to make out the words, while an older man stood smugly by, handing out flyers to passersby.

I have repeatedly read and heard of accounts of the plight of Falun Gong practitioners, and have lived most of my life around a community that is sympathetic to victims of the oppressive Chinese regime. But for now, let's set aside any opinions I have on human rights in China, any sympathies I may or may not have with alleged religious freedom, and ask one question: is it really necessary for a self-proclaimed peace-loving, spiritual-cultivating movement to promote their cause by forcing the general public (especially with it includes young children) to look at absolutely disgusting photographs?

I thought automatically about the images of dismembered corpses on the recent theatrical trailer for Aftershock 《唐山大地震》, the brutal crimes of passion in The Water Margin 《水浒传》and that television series about a jealous stepmother who poured boiling oil over a girl's face that I'd watched back in 1993. With some degree of bitter irony, I realised, as much as Falun Gong wants to distinguish itself from all the things that are wrong with Chinese society today, they are as much a contributor as the oppressive government that they rhetorically fight.

Because, speaking logically and as a concerned member of the community (and also as someone who may be able to make a difference in the future), Falun Gong's bombardment of the gag reflexes of the very people they are trying to get on their side is not any morally better than the alleged torture that the Communist Party practises. Call me a prude, a wimp or a counterrevolutionary, but I find it hard to support an organisation that produces badly edited and conspiracy theory-filled publications such as the Epoch Times 大纪元 and instead wants to persuade me to their cause by showing me a series of pictures that are too horrifying to see.

It is hard to find myself supporting a cause that doesn't stop young children from gaining the full access to their distressing material, perhaps in a desperate hope that converting a young girl is better than no people at all. I have no hesitation in saying that I despise this method--it reminds me, again ironically, all too vividly of the youth-recruitment during the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution. In other words, tactics employed by the great Communist Party of China.

Responsibility and blame need to be accorded to Chinese society's lack of standards for appropriateness in public. In all fairness, if being naked in public is illegal, then so should the photographic display of a naked man being tortured (at the very least when the photographic display is not disguised as any kind of artwork). I would expect better of Hong Kong government and communities--while it is admirable that Falun Gong protesters are legally able to protest in general in Hong Kong, there is an overwhelming need for their material to have at least some social integrity and responsibility. There is rational reason, I believe, in banning some aspects of protests if the protests are out of line with societal concerns. It's not a matter of free speech or freedom of assembly or information by this point--it's simply about trying to maintain some sanity and civility.

Much of Falun Gong's struggle against its oppression has been characterised by unwanted provocation, self-delegitimising claims and social irresponsibility as highlighted in my recent experience. For one of the biggest issues in Chinese human rights in the past two decades, it's received a great deal of international and domestic attention, but the movement hasn't been able to create the huge surges of sympathy it desires.

I recognise that practitioners and supporters are angry about their plight--I just wish that they'd grow up a little about expressing it, so that I can be more supportive and less annoyed when a series of Falun Gong posterboards blocks my way down the street. For legitimacy, for sympathy and for the public's support, Falun Gong has a long way to go before it is seen as the benign spiritual movement it claims to be.

Wargame

Those who know me will also probably know that I have an infinitely insatiable demand for gaming on my beloved iPod Touch. I tend to spend all my time commuting from one destination to another with the handheld device grasped in my fingers, poking at the screen excitedly. This summer, while going to and from work on the subway, I had missed my stop on two separate occassions because of my understandable obsession with a turn-based strategy game called Highborn.

My newest game-to-conquer is named Wargame, and it is actually about, well, conquering. To be specific, the player chooses a "faction" (which is really a bloc in international political terms, to clear things up) to play as, and through weapons upgrades, training more troops and spying on other countries, take over the world. It's a little like Risk, a little like common sense, but for a history buff like me, it was a must-play.

I wasn't expecting, however, that the opening screenshot of the game would be this:




Dated Spring 2010, the world map is clearly divided up into colours, representing the different factions of the world. Dark countries are neutral countries, there to take over for any ambitious national leader. My little cry of shock came at the yellow countries on the right side of the map--where China (Hong Kong, Macau and Tibet included), the Koreas and Taiwan are, by default, a part of the "Empire of the Sun"--the Japanese Empire. Why, I thought, must a modern-day game contain such a glaring obvious and insulting mistake?

My initial reaction and indignation to Wargame's carelessness is interesting. It's a reaction that I would expect many people with knowledge of and sympathies towards China's history to hold. There's something necessary and righteous about speaking for a nation that has suffered through the years, and for it not to be recognised as independent and powerful beyond the realms of its past of being colonised.

Especially, in this case, when the offender in China's history is a country like imperial Japan from the past--warlike, militant, brutal, fascist and controversial. With so many issues and questions hidden under the rug even today, how can a handheld gaming software take such a huge liberty?

It is easy to assume and demand that everyone in the world should be sensitive to a particular nation's own needs. Identifying with the historical dignity of one nation automatically personalises and exacerbates any issues of a 'nationalistic' level, including other people's mistakes. It becomes a personal and national insult that there is someone or someones in the world unfamiliar with the crucial sensitivity of China's past with the Japanese Empire.

Such a large degree of individual indignation for this cause is not necessarily something negative. Rather, I think that having loyal, historigraphically-fanatical people who care is a positive manifestation of the pride of a nation. This means that this nation has something worth defending.

And yet, it is this very same defensive attitude that prolongs inter-nation disputes, historical controversy and any necessity for national apologies. Nationalism and competition, wrongdoing and indignation, all go hand-in-hand.

With Wargame, even a third-party is dragged into the mix, consisting of video game developers that have never needed a history requirement in their job applications. Does our defensive nature go as far as to require that their sympathies should be with us?

The 100 Man Killing Contest: Revised

Originally written in 2008 on fisherie.blogspot.com. Now revised and with multimedia aides.

When I opened up a history book to see these words as the title for one chapter, I sat up a little straighter in my hard, plastic desk chair and read the following pages with some interest. A documented controversy set during the Sino-Japanese war of 1937 to 1945, when Japanese troops were about to surround and take over Nanjing.

This must be one of the craziest debates in the history of atrocities: two Japanese soldiers, bored with the concept of war and the occupation of someone else's capital city, decide, on route to victory and massacre at Nanjing, that they should spice things up by entereing competition mode: the first to kill 100 people--Chinese people--wins. They both excitedly agree that this is a great way to conduct the next part of their military campaign.

Due to the on-the-spot, spontaneous and unprepared nature of their bet, and/or their enthusiasm, the next time they check in with each other, one has reached 105 and the other 106. The two men are unsatisfied, because even though they have both reached their targets, there is no way to prove who had gotten to 100 first. So, they go on with the most logical course of action to settle their friendly rivalry: take the competition to 150, to see who gets to the next stage first.

Such is the alleged tale. Was it just fabricated myth, exacerbated by the nationalistic pride of the soldiers? My book's article then recounts some of the debates and arguments about the accuracy of this account, if there were others and how the debate played out. But the thing that struck me, though, was not the controversies, not the disagreements or even the horrific nature of history, but somehow, my warped mind was making the connection between this part of history, to something kind of absurd, The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers.

The scene in the film I'm thinking of features Gimli and Legolas at the Battle of Helm's Deep. The unexpected friendship brought by competition between an elf and a dwarf. Weren't they doing the same thing? Didn't they look back at one another at several times during the course of the battle, to yell out a number and smile triumphantly in the other's face? What I had once thought was such an amusing segment of my favourite Hollywood blockbuster has now resurfaced in a completely different medium: a long and harsh historical debate about an incident that we all wish would stay fiction rather than fact.

Take a look at this clip, set the morning after the Battle of Helm's Deep wraps up. Gimli sits, idly and happily, on the body of an Orc his axe is conveniently stuck in. Legolas saunters up, and they banter over numbers.



The scene is the neat resolution to the happenings during the battle, where at intermittent intervals when touching moments featuring children are not shown and when Legolas is not making use of makeshift skateboards, Gimli and his Elf rival/friend shout numbers to each other, comparing their killing toll.

And what was Peter Jackson thinking, when this idea came to his head? Maybe, like most of us, he didn't even give it a second thought: Gimli and Legolas killing Orcs? Perfect. It's performing a righteous act, isn't it? The enemy needs to die anyway, so why not in a way that creates some amusement?

It's only now that I no longer feel amused by this part of the film, that when I think about Legolas and Gimli's actions I no longer feel that warm heroism that I suppose it's supposed to bring. Instead, it's--let's face it--freaking scary.

We are entertained by violence in the media so much that we love it when the subject matter is looked at lightly. We egg Legolas and Gimli on, and we laugh when one or the other is falling behind in his tally, because it's hilarious! It's fantastic! They're scrambling around with their axe and knives and bow and arrows, and they're sliding down stairs on shields shaped like skateboards, and those greusome Orcs are getting EXACTLY what they deserve: to be massacred! They're not human anyway, so we don't have to worry about any of that type of morality. As long as they're dying and we're winning, and our favourite odd couple are having lots of fun in the process, we're happy. We're have no reason not to be a happy, entertained audience, moved by the signs of growing friendship between two at-odds species. We do not realise that it is at the expense of massacre.

It's very hard to advocate what to show and what not to show in the media, but I wonder, if Peter Jackson had ever picked up one of these writings on the story of the 100 Man Killing Contest of 1937, if he would have made his movie differently? If he had thought about the horror tales, the justifications and the pure brutality some of these retellings offer up, Gimli and Legolas' contest may have probably been transformed to something with much fewer implications.

But of course, war bonds people like no other passtime in this world. For two species that had been warring for centuries, perhaps the only possiblity of unity would be against a common enemy. This, I can understand--after all, the forces of Sauron are pure evil, much of the heroism stemming from the Battle scene comes from the overwhelming desparation of the protagonists to selflessly defeat this force.

Yet, how should I watch the Helm's Deep battle now, knowing that one of my favourite fictional sequences in recent cinema history... isn't really all fiction?

电影下放

One evening not too long ago, my eyes welled up with tears.

I had turned on my television set to an emotive scene of the 1982 movie The Shaolin Temple, good old Jet Li's premier movie appearance. It was a scene that I remember from my childhood--a young shepherd girl, unable to defeat the evil, corrupt men surrounding her, must watch as her beloved little lamb is slaughtered at knifepoint before she is taken hostage. It was the most striking scene to watch in my early childhood years, and seeing it again more than a decade later drew me right back into the martial arts movie watching mode.

For the next one and a half hours, I was entranced by a movie-watching experience that has been lacking in my life for many years. There were no special effects, no CGI, no science-fiction elements. Instead, there were glorious scenes like this one:




Painted sets, smoke machines, clever shooting-on-location and badass fight-scene choreography. How else can you do justice to martial arts? Guessing conservatively, probably around two-thirds of this film was made up of actual action--that is, fight scenes and other martial arts displays. The story is simple, the ending predictable, it doesn't challenge one's morals, but the movie is good, because it's real.

I couldn't help but feel a little disappointment in the current state of martial arts films, and especially and the mediocre offerings that the West is able to experience. In order to name one example, I'm going to go out on a limb here and disagree with an overwhelming majority of film critics. The House of Flying Daggers, a 2004 Zhang Yimou production, would never have been able to even have flying daggers if it were made with 1980s technology. Not only was the love story contrived and made audiences feel like an idiot, but the mythical ninja-like elements of people flying through trees seriously deserves to be frowned upon by Chinese martial arts enthusiasts.

There's something particularly refreshing about watching a movie that has as few add-ons as possible. It's like participating in a rural re-education program for cosmopolitan, urban movie elites. We should think about what it's taken the movie industry to evolve this far in the past twentysomething years.

After all--isn't that an important part of the learning process throughout Chinese history? To revisit those who have done the work the hard way, and to acclaim them as they deserve. Being "sent down', almost Cultural Revolution-style, to an earlier time in film history may help relieve us, to some degree, the glitter and decorations of 21st century cinema.

I, for one, would like to see another Shaolin Temple, becuase when we take away the frivolity of computer graphics and flying people, we still can't deny the talent that is true, old-fashioned, Shaolin martial arts.

Pilot

In an attempt to dedicate myself further to my studies, to my personal historical roots and to my declared undying passion for writing, "Dinner Parties from the Past" will be a devoted series of studies and analysis on topics in Chinese history.

I spent the better part of a day in the office in an attempt to come up with a suitable title for this blog. Me, being me, wanted something sophisticated and meaningful, that conveys both the 'history' element in the discussions on the page and make references to China. Being a big fan of quotes, I chewed on the end of a black Uni-ball Eye black ink pen (Mitsubishi model UB-150, incidentally, probably one of the only things in this office not made in China) and forced my very tired brain to remember something worthwhile from my fifteen years of education.

After having to resort to the internet anyway due to my distracted and futile brainwork attempts, I finally arrived at the title "Dinner Parties from the Past". For those who are not aware, for those who don't care and for those who do not understand my (possible) ambiguity, I wanted to reference Mao Zedong's famous quote "A revolution is not a dinner party...", on the violence and internal turmoil that he predicted would overtake China.

The other part of my blog title comes from a mis-remembering of the lyrics of a song. A song that is coincidentally, from my past, and may have indirectly contributed considerably in my fanatical interest in Chinese history. It's a song about persecution and poverty, injustice and inequality, and of course, a song with overwhelming overtones of liberation and a better present and future.

Living in the 'future' of this song, I feel obligated to consider the conditions and the specifications of this predicted betterment, and whether if it was ever meant to be a reality. This is essentially what I want this blog to be about--a search for clues that may be pertinent to teaching us about a nation's journey into maturity, a critique of representations that make us wonder about why we are what and where we are, a testament to the amazement to be found in this field of study...

So let's begin, shall we?