CHASING THE DRIFTING SMOKE

One of my most favourite doleful ballads is the lament of a songbird in a brothel, as sung by Chou Hsuen. It dates from sometime during the thirties, and features three instruments: the Pipa (Chinese lute), the Erhu (Turkic fiddle), and wooden clackers (which you remember from opera performances).

The lute and fiddle are of barbarian origin, and consequently appropriate for disreputable tunes, laments of separation and exile, and the plaintive complaints of oppressed women.

The theme of unhappy femininity is classically approved.
Celebrated in prose, poetry, and song.


青樓恨 ～ 周璇 
['CHING LOU HEN']
SADNESS IN THE BORDELLO, SUNG BY CHOU HSUEN
[Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ga7VDTy0dFA.]

雨聲兒潺潺，風兒送著炊煙，
獨自懷抱琵琶彈著哀怨。
人頭兒攢攢，笑聲兒聽著心煩，
睜眼顧盼，只覺得一片黑暗。

尋不到，知音的人，
找不見，找不見，同情的良伴。
只歎懦弱的人兒，在曲中時還要，
還要，還要，還要裝笑臉。

Yǔ shēng-er chánchán, fēng-er sòngzhuo chuīyān,
dúzì huáibào pípá dànzhuó āiyuàn.
Rén tóu-er zǎn zǎn, xiào shēng-er tīngzhuo xīnfán,
zhēng yĕn gùpàn, zhǐ juédé yīpiàn hēi'àn.

Xún bù dào, zhīyīn di rén,
zhǎo bùjiàn, zhǎo bùjiàn, tóngqíng di-a liáng bàn.
Zhǐ tàn nuòruò di rén-er, zài qū zhòng shí hái yào,
hái yào, hái yào, hái yào zhuāng xiàoliǎn.

Paraphrased:
Rain clatters down and gusts chase the drifting smoke,
solitarily I clutch my lute, plucking sadly;
Though the assembled guests are merry, I am troubled,
my eyes stare and find only darkness.

Searching I cannot find any one who knows my heart,
I look but do not spy a compassionate companion;
Sighing I know failure, in the middle of my song I still must,
still must, still must, still must pretend to smile.


Perhaps I ought to ask the gentleman with the erhu who occasionally plays in Portsmouth Square if he knows this tune.
This is not Budweiser music; you will not find it at a karaoke joint.
It's a veritable celebration of being alone in the world.
Besides being heart-wrenchingly lovely.

A bit old-fashioned nowadays.
Times have changed.


苦瓜豬肉炒麵
['FU-GWAA CHÜ-YIUK CHAAU MIN']

On a related note, being a single man for the last few years has meant that I have enjoyed my own cooking more often than not. Yesterday's evening meal was chopped German pork sausage with bittermelon and fermented black bean over kuanmiao oil-noodle (台南關廟油麵 'toi naam gwaan miu yau min').
Touch of garlic and ginger, small jigger apple cider vinegar (in lieu of lime juice), large squirt of Sriracha, and a drizzle of fish sauce.
It was delicious!

Many Chinese Americans do not like bitter melon, because it was a taste that they hated as children, which their mothers forced them to eat. And, growing up with MacDonalds, they had the same yearning for sweet greasy crap that their Caucasian classmates did.

Not being Chinese, I am not so cursed.

Bitter melon is available all over Chinatown at this time of year.

The single man feasts abundantly.

Yes, he bitches about his damned solitude, but he feasts abundantly.




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