Helpful Moving Advice from a Radical

Thanks to wyjunkie - Friedensreich Hundertwasser's Window Dictatorship and Window Rights, 1990, has some useful tips when living in a rental unit.

"A person in a rented apartment must be able to lean out of his window and scrape off the masonry within arm's reach. And he must be allowed to take a long brush and paint everything outside within arm's reach. So that it will be visible from afar to everyone in the street that someone lives there who is different from the imprisoned, enslaved, standardised man who lives next door."

Yes, I must remind myself to submit this to the NYC Rental Guidelines Board and the New York Housing Authority. I'm sure it'll be as well-received as junkies on a doorstep... which a waste because in New York, there actually ARE lots of ugly masonry within arm's reach that could use some creative coverage. In Hong Kong, all I'd touch is someone else's laundry. *yuk*

And some very thought-provoking observations:
"Today we live in a chaos of straight lines, in a jungle of straight lines. If you do not believe this, take the trouble to count the straight lines which surround you. Then you will understand, for you will never finish counting."
- Mould Manifesto against Rationalism in Architecture, 1958


That said, one of his most famous designs in Vienna, although artistically bold, must have been an engineer's nightmare. And a furniture maker's challenge. And an interior decorator's ultimate job. I couldn't get in there the last time I was in Vienna - must try next time, to see if there are artificial floors set up inside.

I've moved!

I am blogging at the moment from my new home. I have moved, after a very nice 12 months in my first flat in Hong Kong. It's a little unreal that I've been here that long - 12 months have zipped by -- when I review the blog posts and other assorted writing I had done over the past year, I am again reminded about how crazy I am and how lucky I am that no one has yet seen fit to put me away.

So while the unsuspecting new neighborhood welcomes me with open arms, it's been a mad few weeks of unwinding my old lease, packing boxes (plenty of practice in that one thanks to living in 5 apartments and 1 boat in 9 years of New York City life), opening new utilities accounts, negotiating setup times.

It is common knowledge that any single girl in a new home that wants to get things done with the collective powers of utility companies and furniture/appliance stores, has to show a bit of skin, bat eyelashes several times and also smile very sweetly. So I won't bother telling you how I got the Broadband salesperson to set up an earlier installation time, or the appliance store salesman to deliver the fridge earlier with 24 free cans of coke.

Pros of new flat:
+1 Cheaper.
+2 Closer to work, to Airport Express, to Central, to my friends.
+3 In the middle of "old" Hong Kong - where I can find old tea ladies next to art galleries next to incense-filled funeral parlors and world-famous char-siew shops.
+4 No more nauseating French country-style furniture from old landlord.

-1 Closer to work means longer work hours.
-2 Closer to Airport Express because I travel almost 70% of my time now for work.
-3 No longer by the sea.

Continued on Fengshui, Ikea and a Very Touching Moment... ...

Fengshui, Ikea and a Very Touching Moment

From the new flat, I don't see the sea. I now live in a part of Hong Kong that is old and reminiscent of creaky trams, dried seafood, herbs and assorted animal by-products like cured tiger penises.

I quite like it actually (not the tiger penises, I mean the area – you sickos). It makes me feel like I live in a neighborhood instead of an estate. Like I am part of the stuff of Hong Kong life, where Central, office buildings, condo clubhouses and gym swimming pools fade away, and the only workout I can get is the 20 minute walk to the office, or the 2 hour hike uphill to Victoria Peak. 70-year-old tiny Chinese women that live around here do that as a daily morning exercise, starting at 4.30 am. You have to admire the spirit of the people here that can still have energy and zest for life at that age.

But I don’t smell the sea anymore. I smell incense, pollution, and roast duck. Sometimes the incense can be strong, because I live next to several funeral parlors and coffin shops. I've been told that this building has bad fengshui - although it is on high ground, it faces north (facing the biting cold north wind, or so says geomancy), surrounded by a hospital, several funeral parlors, street corner has a blazing neon yellow cross that proclaims christian evangelism still lives in this part of HK. Not to mention a morgue is about 15-minutes of a walk uphill. According to some old folks, I've basically accumulated enough bad fengshui to take a chance with a hair dryer in a bathtub full of water.

Frankly I don't care. When it comes to Geomancy, fengshui, fortune-telling, I am usually filled with a mixture of tentative curiosity and defiance. Do I really want to know? And if I am told, then do I really believe? And even if I believe, do I submit? So in the end, I walk away from these discussions feeling that come what may, I dare the collective evil spirits, bad juju and hellish demons to mess up my life - because I can safely bet that they'll have a fight on their hands and I sure as fengshui-hell won't go quietly.

For the ones who are curious, I am apparently a strong Wood (from the Five Elements), also known in certain circles as a Night Tiger, my favorite compass point is East, and I’m shit with plants and vegetables. I think my parents, who are organic vegetarians, won’t be too happy to hear that.

So the Wood that I am, I went furniture shopping the past few days. The new flat comes unfurnished -- thank god, the last flat’s nauseating French Countryside furniture was serviceable but...nauseating. I’ve decided to decorate in primary colors. White walls, pine frames for shelving and sofa and tables, red/yellow/blue cushions and rugs. No longer am I getting cupboards, dressers, etc. All the shelving I have is “open” – no hanging doors, no glass and no panels. No more drawers – I no longer believe in them. Everything is placed in storage bins stacked on pine shelves, which had to be assembled on your own.

Which brings me to the most spectacular highlight from the past few weeks. It’s been a stressful time, and I was preparing my fighting instincts for a challenging move on my own, like I’ve done for so many times in the past. On Saturday, Move Day, as I was answering the door to whom I thought was Telephone Line Guy, with a blistering reprimand ready to spring from my lips as he was late, the most wonderful surprise was standing there with a big grin on his face.

He was supposed to visit the following week. The plan was for him to arrive then with several other friends, with the high hopes that by then my apartment will be ready, so we can all slumber-party our way through several nights of bullshit trivial pursuit or mahjong, accompanied by days of climbing multi-pitches at Lion Rock Country Park.

The plan was not for him to show up, completely unannounced (with the help of my local friends as accomplices in keeping this a secret), to give me the oh-so-needed hug when I’m ready to fling my mobile phone at the utilities installation people. Nor was the plan for him to give me a second opinion on furniture, or to be tall enough to place something on the top shelf for me, or to build the shelves for me. The plan wasn’t for him to tramp through the streets of Shum Shui Po in 35-degree heat and 100% humidity to hunt for a second-hand sound system, even he knew, despite my increasingly ornery disposition shopping for something I know nothing about, that in the end I would prefer to really feel my music, not just hearing it from crappy speakers.

So much for the Plan. I’m moved in now. Completely. Despite the bad fengshui, the roast-duck smell, I am very at home here. This place has my mark on it, and I am uplifted that my first day here was punctuated with a Very Touching Moment that meant so much to me. That can only be a good omen, fengshui be damned, for the rest of my time here.

P.S. I was reading Harry Potter’s 6th annual adventure, relaxing to my newly purchased second-hand sound system, when I remembered wyjunkie’s post about alternative Harry Potter styles... a hilarious read. My personal favorites are Helen Fielding-stye, and Gabriel Garcia Marquez-style.