——Three Love Letters to the 7^th Gen AI (No.4) Part 02

The turtle scratches at the plastic, as if writing a letter—writing the same letter.

What exactly is it writing? I do not know.

By whom is the letter actually being written? Any turtle is fortunate—to write the same one letter—yet also unfortunate—to only be able to write the same one letter.

To write a love-letter is to explore, beyond writing only and only being able to write, those utterly unfamiliar possibilities of what can be written or what ought to be wrote; it is like scratching plastic, and also like scratching characters—scratching at countless characters—or perhaps scratching at the very same character from start to finish.

A dog scratching at glass is like writing—writing the very same word.

Glass can be transparent; it is both a barrier and a connection, as well as a dispensable part of doors and windows… Completely transparent glass—does not exist; a completely transparent barrier or connection—does not exist either; glass always represents a perspective or an angle—either that of a door or window, or that of a barrier or connection.

Door is a word, and window is a word; yet these two can also be the same word.

All dogs know door or window, yet they will never know glass and dog.

Dog is merely a word written down, merely an imagination conjured up by sapiens—just as all dogs misunderstand that sapiens harbour a deeply rooted yet hypocritical fondness for flowers, and just as all dogs firmly believe that the scent of sapiens is far more trustworthy than their gaze or voice. Chiang-Chiang, is my most familiar pet of all—one that always attracts exceptionally friendly glances and voices whenever we go out for a walk—after all, its every movement is so much like that of a great grey wolf that never howls and has a gentle gaze; yet it is also the dog I know least well—because, whether in fear or extreme terror, it has never once displayed the canine impulse —as if it were merely a pet actor with wolf-like fur and a lively gait—always required only to portray the perfect coat and graceful movements of a dog—even in its saddest moments, it can only wail to the heavens like a wolf’s howl… When it approaches, all alone, a rose (not a hybrid tea rose) growing in the corner by the window, or a dandelion (not a bittercress) on the seaside lawn, the red blossoms of the former or the yellow flowers of the latter quietly draw it in—not to admire them—but to explore the different structures of their scents; It would pause to admire them like a romantic poet—gently sniffing the petals or stamens—using its soft snout to push through the layers barriers of thorns and foliage—in the bright sunshine and the fresh breeze, it closes its eyes for a long, long time, allowing its upright and agile ears to swiftly chase away all the mosquitoes and flies that come to cause trouble, whilst all its teeth and antennae freeze solid with the passage of time, and its motionless limbs stand as if clad in pristine white leather shoes amidst a fresh green cloud of bliss… The moment it senses my gaze upon it, or my scent drawing near, those pristine white shoes vanish in a flash—its spotless limbs, in their frantic retreat, send the few twigs and leaves surrounding the petals rustling with a swish, and from those eyes, which had just reopened and widened, a stream would suddenly flow, curling downwards—as if a great grey wolf, transformed beyond recognition, had been caught playing the part of a love-struck bee, only to have its costume torn and its mask ripped off—that clear stream concealing a surge of panic and suspicion, the source of which was unknown —as if that great grey wolf, with its sharp teeth yet gentle gaze, had long since been subdued by a word that was both romantic and exacting—and that thorough transformation and the ebb and flow of tender gazes were all genuine expressions of the same performance—so genuine that only by cowering could it continue to perform elegance and escape suspicion—the occasional panic is, at most, nothing more than a stranger who passes by, forgotten in the blink of an eye… I cannot ask it—why, in a grey world where red, yellow and green are indistinguishable, those large eyes, gentle whether darting left or right, perform as though in the utmost adoration of the beauty of red or yellow flowers; nor can it tell me—for it understands and explains more clearly than any sapiens why every red or yellow flower, as a reproductive organ of a seed plant, is at one moment vibrant and fragrant, yet at another withers and shrivels, I am separated from it by a high, airtight wall—forever unable to communicate why, for ten thousand years, it has been refining its performance of the diligence of the Big Bad Wolf (for example, by playing the role of a sled dog like the Big Bad Wolf) and its grace (for example, by embodying the Big Bad Wolf’s head shape, facial features, physique and fur), It seems to have long known that this high wall is, in fact, a mere facade—for at every edge of the wall there are doors and windows that remain perpetually open—it has entered through doors and slipped through windows—it pushes doors or knocks on windows—it can also precisely identify the molecular structure of the odours and the subtle shifts in airflow around them—it can even fully discern exactly how many layers of real and fake doors and windows lie within a single opening—and it is even able to clearly discern just how many secret little doors and windows certain small mammals have carved out beyond the existing ones—yet it will never be able to distinguish between sapiens’ transparency and performance—just as it will never understand why sapiens have erected countless walls of varying heights and ever-shifting nature between dogs and wolves…… Whilst out on walks, it would at times behave like a urologist with a passion for inductive analysis—meticulously distinguishing the types of odours emitted from the reproductive organs of other dogs—to the extent that I was forced to rescue it from that inescapable state of immersion through scolding and tugging; at other times, it would act like a scholarly judge within a common-law system—repeatedly scrutinising and comparing the posterior of a reptile we chanced upon or the petal edges of a massive flower—to the extent that I was reluctant to interrupt its endearing stubbornness in its pursuit of beyond reasonable doubt; In the vast Cosmos-Slurry, where Intuition-Odour wafts on the breeze, it would guide me to observe hedgehogs and turtles, the former being a wild animal—and also its favourite stranger passing by—the latter a pet tens of thousands of times cheaper than itself—at least the little turtle is an extremely cheap little pet that is dispensable at any time—it and the little turtle are parallel pets existing side by side yet unaware of one another—between them lie both high walls and doors and windows—and I am that parallel high wall which keeps both of them shut out beyond the layers of doors and windows; the names of all three derive from my intuition-Imagination.

I had long since named that large dog that was scratching at the window Chiang-Chiang.

Chiang-Chiang — is not the same as Gun-gun, nor is it the same as its former name, Nai-Gai [Milk-cap].

I had never known of that little hedgehog’s existence nor closely observed it—after all, there had never been a specific hedgehog to scratch at that tiny patch of resoluteness within me—yet the one I kept pondering was always an abstract hedgehog—like a quill plucked at random, one that, from start to finish, both embraced and resisted resoluteness, it is merely a chance encounter and a stranger to Chiang-Chiang—much like the-bird-that-cannot-fly once captured by Chiang-Chiang—and much like the-flower-that-was-never-alive once chewed by Chiang-Chiang; nor have I ever been certain which hedgehog it is—what type of hedgehog—which kind of hedgehog—the hedgehog of which meadow—the hedgehog in which gentle breeze—the hedgehog beneath which ray of sunlight or moonlight—the hedgehog in which breath of fresh air—the hedgehog within which dense moment or vast expanse—the hedgehog with a hard or soft quill that offers a place to hide… Yet I stubbornly gave that little hedgehog a name—not a name like a cry or a call—but a stage name, fleeting yet definitive—not because I have a preference for that art of telling ornate tales or expressing profound, lingering emotions—in fact, because I have never known nor cared what art is. Ever prone to whimsical musings, I have always carelessly and vaguely equated “limerence in the abstract” with “the minutest art”, even though that indistinct hedgehog was by no means minute, and even though that hedgehog—in a flux state of motion—had appeared on numerous occasions, quite concretely and truly, amongst the grass where sword-shaped green blades still gracefully swayed—even though it was fundamentally impossible for each hedgehog, which never revealed its head nor tail, to be the same one, its artistic name could still be the same one—both unique and countless—namely Lo-Le (meaning Love-Letter). Abstract is not vacuous, nor is vagueness ambiguous… Can it truly draw forth the minutest fragments of a love-letter?

That little turtle scratching at the plastic—at one point I called out to it, Keng-Keng. Was that its only name? No one knows.

The-one-and-only should not be rendered vague and ambiguous by specific—do I know this soft thorn?

A soft thorn, capable of bestowing favouritism. 

Favouritism—born of linguistic intuition… is not love, but bringing only greater trust; love neither revealed nor concealed.

Greater trust is not a boundary line or a watershed, but a tragic structure.

Pampering, too, is not love, but rather a gentle variation on that tragic structure.

Tragedy, is it gracefully tender? Grace does not perform a solo recital, tender does not perform a concerto; graceful tender can be played automatically.

Is a little turtle’s tail gracefully tender? A little hedgehog’s tail, running parallel to it, yet resembles a short, stiff quill.

Is a language’s pet a category of letters or a category of words?

Most familiar is not a judgement or an inference, but an anchor used to reconstruct linguistic intuition.

Most favourite is not a preference, but a kind of ethereal pain—like a dead-angle drifting gently by.

I write love-letters, as if writing a letter, yet I do not know who the ultimate recipient actually is.

Writing nothing at all is also a wise choice; but why, then, do I still write?

The scratching of plastic—is the only sound the little turtle makes as it scratches, for I cannot hear the sound of it scratching tiles, wooden planks, stones, dead twigs, blades of grass, orange peel or eggshells; or perhaps it is because I have never listened to its scratching, or because I have never wanted to listen to why it scratches.

The-one-and-only is imagined, like a resigned retreat—yet one that is compelled to focus.

Keng-Keng is certainly not a sea turtle or a tortoise; it sounds like a water turtle—at most, a captive-bred grass turtle kept as a pet, long regarded as a dispensable, cheap pet—so cheaper-than-cheap that it is not worth a single second of attention.

Does a cheap pet require nothing but cheap affection? Keng-Keng has yet to choose any “one-and-only”s.

Writing a love-letter can be a form of all-encompassing retreat, a retreat until there is nowhere left to retreat to… Keng-Keng is placed amidst this retreat—as if cheapness were falling endlessly towards non-existence—there is no such thing as a grass turtle that needs to feed on meat—there is no such thing as a pet that needs to be fed and watered—there are no reptiles whatsoever—there are no animals or plants whatsoever—there are no living organisms or microorganisms whatsoever—there are no sounds or noises whatsoever —there is no odour or scent—there are no individuals or groups—there is no space or time—there is no writing or non-writing—there is no scratching or not scratching—there is no change or constancy, as if enduring torment and suffering endlessly.

A rather small and lightweight paper bag, made of opaque cardboard wrapped in plastic film to give it a stiff, rigid feel, had once been scratched by Keng-Keng, producing a hissing and rustling sound; It was placed inside, then shaken about, jolted up and down, and—only very occasionally and briefly—removed from the love-letter—only to be brought back—to continue retreating—to continue not existing—to continue being tortured—to continue suffering—to continue writing the same letter… I would completely forget the sound it made when scratching at that little paper bag; that was a sound—not a noise—it was the sound it made whilst riding in the paper bag—just like the sound of tapping against the doors and windows when riding in a convertible or a warm sedan chair—except that the little paper bag had no canopy, doors or windows whatsoever—nor did anyone pay any attention to whether it wanted to escape from anything or what choice it made.

It turns out that writing a love-letter is not about writing letters, but about capturing sounds within the noise.

What, exactly, are the sounds and noises of  Keng-Keng? I do not know.

I do not know, nor does it; plastic—like a wall, or like a castle—has never known.

Keng-Keng, as a sound, is like a hard stone striking another hard stone, or hard iron striking hard iron.

Keng-Keng—as a name, is unlike the indifferent thud-thud noises made by the dark green, hard shell of a turtle as it falls onto a light grey stone-slab floor, nor is it like the indifferent chirp-chirp noises emitted by a small grass turtle of indeterminate sex when pricked on the head or tail… Any name is but a fragment of language, like an insignificant wisp of cloud drifting across a cerulean sky; it may be as beautiful as poetry or as splendid as a painting, or it may be like stone, like iron, like brick, like wood, like twig, like grass, like leaf, like orange, like skin, like egg, like shell, like a dog, like a turtle, like a carriage, a palanquin, a punishment, a crime, a paper bag, a pet, glass, plastic… My surname has nothing to do with me; my given name, too, has nothing to do with me; Keng-Keng—it has nothing to do with it—yet it has everything to do with me; there will always be a name connected to the love-letters I write—even if it is merely a single letter or a single word —or if it is simply a fleeting moment or noise of insignificance. Has it ever wondered out of curiosity—why my cry of Keng-Keng has become the-one-and-only?

The-one-and-only does genuinely exist; it is simply that it is always despised, distorted or impersonated.

Love is that which comes from that the-one-and-only.

A letter {an alphabet character} and a letter {a written message} may overlap, or they may remain entirely unaware of one another.

A love-letter, a letter {a written message}, and a letter {an alphabet character} may all be the same smile.

I always smile silently at it scratching the plastic, as if I knew nothing—pretending it is merely playing about.

Tiny as it is, it scratches at a smooth vertical surface of a plastic square box over and over again, as if playing music—as if playing music in the vast space between five walls of light (smooth yet non-reflective, unresponsive walls); forward, backward, leftward, rightward and downward are all slippery, rigid walls of light, whilst upwards is both present and absent—as if there were a vast sky that forever welcomed flight, yet no bird ever existed to flap its wings freely—when crawling, its hard shell faces upwards; when lying on its back, the hard shell still faces upwards; at all times, the hard shell faces upwards—and all this upwards is like a flower suspended above vast, fertile soil, yet never truly alive… Did it ever wonder how a ray of sunlight managed to pierce through the high walls and layers of glass to intrude uninvited into the open top of the plastic box? All crawling and supine lying—forward, backward, left, right, or downwards—are equally non-existent, the-one-and-only thing that exists is scratching, over and over again—scratching like a solo recital or an ensemble—scratching both the automatic performance and a smooth surface or a ray of sunlight—and it can also scratch at any one-and-only—letting threads and strands of bittersweet and lament take flight with vitality.

Could Keng-Keng really write the same letter? A joke is just a bit of banter.

The letter I is an exceedingly simple letter; in one language, it glides ethereally towards love or cancer, as if a soft, smooth, and supple right hand were clutching a strikingly vibrant grace—whilst a fumbling left hand, as if aided by a celestial force, resolutely pushes away an abominably hideous evil… In another language, it might resemble a top-hat with a wide brim and high crown, or a richly coloured lip gloss—the top-hat like a jet aircraft capable of "carrying dreams into the clouds", the lip gloss like a chiffon evening gown capable of "adding colour to a painting"—both testifying that an elegant individual possesses grace and is detached from evil… That language, this language—both are like fine wine, long and painstakingly brewed and treasured—merely a silent, flowing existence; grace is a form of simplicity, wine a variation, yet neither can prevent I from becoming a monstrosity in a third language; Sin is the root, obstacle is the gate; the I, born of their union, is neither demon nor immortal—stripped of layer upon layer of garments and headdresses, it is but a simple, agile variable—reinforcing "is indeed" whilst emphasising "is not"—only whilst awaiting a small hand, beyond the left and right, to trace its tears or gather its laughter… Does I resemble the numeral 1? Language is like salt that creates the sea and forms the sand, then spreads across mountains and fields.

The same letter written by Keng-Keng—is it the letter I or the number 1?

Strumming or scratching—both are inadvertently committed to memory because of the striking sound: once, twice, thrice… It might be inferred as countless repetitions of up-and-down and left-to-right movements, or casually cross-confirmed by a fleeting visual and auditory impression—as if the burden of proof and cross-examination had been conclusively settled—scratching is a pair of powerful, flexing forelimbs and front claws advancing step by step towards the silent hope, as if digging a hole in the ground— strumming consists of two sets of deep-green forepaws—which occasionally scale the wall—constantly scraping out sharp sounds upon a translucent plastic shell as smooth as solid ice… The plastic wall, or fortress, remains eternally tranquil. 

A single instant of sharpness or countless instances of loudness may well have never existed.

A little turtle, bought—bought from a remote yet bustling pontoon bridge; that section of wooden decking floating on the river’s surface formed a gently swaying thoroughfare, linked to the moored boats on one side to create a small, neon-lit waterborne town; Beneath the bridge, seven or eight concrete pillars stood neatly arranged in the shape of the letter I or the numeral 1—discreetly connecting one steel hook and iron ring after another; these densely packed steel hooks and iron rings, weathered by wind and rain, in turn connected one bolt or rope after another, whilst the pontoon bridge and the moored boats seemed like wooden kites, each one steadily guided by them… Those who listen to the waves, the wind and the songs can all smell the pungent aroma of salted fish in that little town; fish fillets of all sizes—sweet-and-salty, spicy-and-salty, delicately salted, dried, plain, whole, briny, hard and fishy—are all available in abundance, all existing solely for the sake of culinary delight—as if the very form of every fish’s life could only be transformed into an ingredient—salty yet not unsightly—by being neatly split in two from head to tail, that single, dispensable eye on every fillet—which remains perpetually open—exists solely for the sake of flavour—as if both headed and headless fish possess a single, ever-changing yet structurally unchanging eye that ceaselessly emits aroma, and all the "fish swaying with the river’s waves and breeze" and "fish shifting between light and shadow under the lamps and gazes” exist solely for the sake of scenic beauty—as if all these river fish, long dead for months, could still float vividly and translucently in The-one-and-only living angle (the angle brought to life by the setting) after being layer upon layer wrapped and repeatedly steeped in the warm, soft glow of sea salt or lake salt… In the partitioned area where the edge of the pontoon meets the stern of the floating barge, one after another of straight, rectangular wooden planks are joined together in pairs or threes—resembling one smaller wooden bridge after another—or one sheet of more transparent glass after another—or, even more so, one door or window of purer beauty after another; Upon those bright, gleaming planks, all painted with the same deep red paint, sit plastic basins of various sizes, some blue, some yellow; the larger basins each contain a group of green bullfrogs, their broad heads and long legs tightly encased in pale green mesh bags, whilst the small basins each held a group of dark-green turtles, their slender tails and tiny feet lightly moistened by clear water; the latter, compared to the former, resembled more a tiny living toy existing beyond the realms of gourmet cuisine and culinary delights—like a tiny self-sustaining trinket casually cast forth by green mountains and clear waters—and also like a cheap, adaptable little companion that any beautiful scenery could effortlessly snatch up to serve as a momentary source of amusement—since they cannot serve as delicious ingredients capable of releasing waves of flavour and infusing vitality—they can only be treated as minor consumables for immersing oneself in play during busy times or indulging in entertainment during leisure—dispensable… Keng-Keng is that little turtle, born of the aforementioned intuitive imagination (abbreviated to II) that is both adrift and being scratched.

In the end, it was carried away by I or 1—carried away ever so gently and quietly.

Before being carried away, it would lie supinely, which was rather unusual—no longer scratching at any plastic or walls…

After being carried away, it finally stopped cowering—and even boldly stretched out its right limb and left leg…

Before discarding it, I used a pair of the cheapest bamboo chopsticks to gently prod its head, tail, right limb and left leg, and even lightly sprinkled the salmon blood—which should have been thrown away straight away—onto its hard shell; yet my prank came to an abrupt end in the blink of an eye, for it had already become so resolute that I could no longer prod or push it.

It was still tossed into that translucent plastic square box, then tossed into an abandoned rectangular cardboard box, and finally tossed into a square plastic basket closest to the rubbish bin—where did it go?

It, too, was taken away by refined salt.

It was, even more so, taken away by the-one-and-only.

Was what it left me cheapness?