The creation of "zero" and the height of "zero" - read Yang Qingxiang's "The World Equals Zero" 丨 New Power

Now, let us stand at a cruel height to look at Yang Qingxiang's poems.

You can mark the "history" of this height with a rising slash, and on the back ridge of the diagonal line is all the creation of mankind so far: events, judgments, ranks, laws, orders, ideas... Of course, the most important thing is truth, or, more precisely, the vast "organization" of truth—it is like a manual of rules that soldiers must obey, conclusive and leave no room. But the end of the slash is not fixed, because the second hand of history is turning all the time. That is to say, this height is actually "unrestrained"; its height is always trembling.

It was in this "undisciplined" trembling area that Yang Qingxiang found the "scene" of him and his poetry, and also found the law of poetry writing. It is a guard against certainty, a vigilance against creation, an anticipation of the unknown world and a creative impulse; it is the starting point of naming, and the end point of tracing and even pursuing the human soul. The cruelty of it is that when we follow the poet into this "double origin" and look down vertically, the imaginary vertical line that can support the "cliff shore" is missing, or it does not exist at all. Ha, everything is fictional, even the "organized" diagonal line that symbolizes the coming path, but also under the poet's stern gaze, it disintegrates.

The only thing that is true is zero. Then, Yang Qingxiang tried to chisel out on the inner wall of Zero— Freedom.

This is the freedom of the legislator alone, who has forced himself into a most uncomfortable and utter danger, in order to examine the body of the times and to discover and reconstruct all the value of things, including temporary "truths."

Given that the "base" of Yang Qingxiang's poetry writing is so hard and lonely, any technical analysis of his poetry may be ineffective. Because it's hard to separate a concise pattern from a "needle tip" that is almost equal to zero, the needle tip is the simplicity itself. It was chilling and refused to approach. “Don’t touch me！” ("The 7th Power of the Epidemic"), which is the poet's self-imprisonment, but also a begging and lamentation for others. Only in this way can he separate the reasonable distance between "seeing" the other, and can he secretly accommodate another self in the poem, that is, the "creative self" that shares a spiritual entity with the "me.".

It is important to see through this, it is Yang Qingxiang's dialogue channel that opens up to the world completely with the language aesthetics of poetry. In this regard, Yang Qingxiang has words to prove it: "Roughly speaking, all my poetry maintains a confrontation and dialogue between the most nihilistic individuality and the most violent totality. Who is the "most nihilistic individuality"? Who is the "most violent totality"? If we abstract "me" as a total reality, and translate "the created me" into a virtual ideal individual, the problem will be solved. In the final analysis, man is both the creator of the object and the creator of the subject, and whichever side you claim, you will hold the vision of which side. "If you stare into the abyss for a long time, the abyss will stare at you too." And alert people like Yang Qingxiang will always correct their position and vision, he insists on standing on the high ground and looking high, and his look in all other directions - looking up, looking back, overlooking - is only to accumulate the power to look up. In the ultimate sense, he is to lift up the "ground" of reality and be ready to exile it, to exile creation, to the ruins of the self.

Therefore, we have every reason to expect a complete "new self" in Yang Qingxiang's poems—created by the "created me" and integrated with the creation in our hands (the "newly created me"). Thus, through dialogue, confrontation and even repeated competitions, a road map of ideas to the new self was launched.

The first is "World Equals Zero", which is hidden in the shadows, which names the poetry collection and simplifies this huge thought process. "I've been and gone/ The world is equal to zero." Coming from zero, going to zero, human destiny is nothing more than that. But "I" is distinguished from the crowd, and "I" have to fold countless arcs on the smooth straight lines that come and go. The biggest of these is the master-guest struggle between man and thing: "I" came to claim to be the master of all things, until I peeked into the mirror of the other ("you") that "every piece of clothing passes through you" and "you sat outside the door and waited for a black dream to finish you", only to discover a basic fact: man is making things, enslaving things, and being made and enslaved by things. The culprit that leads to this situation is not the natural thing itself, but precisely human beings themselves, but the creation of clothes and dreams that betrays man and robs man of his subjective power. It is conceivable that "man", as a creature of his own experience and concepts, will also be "reflexive". Sure enough, "every word says you"! This means that language, the vocal symbol of experience and concept, eventually explodes, and it automatically generates a reverse examination and speech of the person himself. What did he say? The poet is very tight: "The secret of the tongue rolling up the farewell". I conclude that it is at the moment of "tongue rolling up" that Yang Qingxiang's poem initiates its secret labor, and the words will step around the arc of speech to step on a path to the first birth of the gods.

Arc 1, is love. "Thinking innocence" "uses the opposite of all things to verify" What kind of love is the right body of "innocence", and its courage to subvert cognition comes from the utilitarian "evil" of love in reality; "I cherish the three kinds of people" while reiterating "Thinking innocence", does not forget to give the disgusting gaze to the transparent person who "mingles with everyone"; love is not a take, love is not absolute "selflessness and selflessness", "The highest level of love" stands up for love on the wasteland full of "love": "Don't disturb / Recite the song of grace in the clouds". Yes, this is tantamount to an uprising of love, "love will build a three-dimensional structure in the void" ("The Revolt of Dusk"), like Che Guevara, like the "gunshot" that pierces the night for love ("Che Guevara").

But everyone has "when I can't love" ("When I can't love"), no one is cute, or powerless to love, then "I will hold my right hand with my left hand / I will love the bodhisattva and love myself" ("I am now a falling leaf and the wind"). When love withdraws from the vision of relationships and becomes independent, it still has a reason for self-sufficiency and self-consistency. This is a kind of "self-love" that is closest to the state of nature and the original instincts of human beings. In this way, love returns to its original point and harvests a new apocalyptic power.

In fact, the new is also the old, but this "new" is the quenching rebirth after the smelting world. But who wants to melt? Who wants to quench? And that brings us to Arc 2: Truth.

What people are willing to do is to compile, revise, reproduce, and "unfold" and pave this experience into "great truth." "How desolate..." In A Night in As vegas, the poet issues a fatal cross-examination to the gambler of life. As vegas" is certainly not "Las Vegas", the former is like a "fragment" of the batch imitation of the latter, a gamble that repeats history in the carnival of throwing "dice".

This is a disease, a disease of the "modern soul", which uses the precise and strict "truth" as a mold in a vain attempt to squeeze out the same expression, even the same imagination, for all sentient beings. I do not admit that when the "class" is fixed in the "type", it is also the time when the "person" loses himself. One can only "praise, chew on the void and the surplus" (the "sick of the times") in "the moment when the eyes are lost" ("A Generation"). This shows that the "man" himself will become the most meaningful sacrifice of the "class". So "How much truth! How many faces! While implying that "truth" is cleverly named and distorting life, another explanation can be made, that is, as many "faces of truth" as there are, there are as many "human faces" as they look at them.

We don't know what the outcome of the visual is, but at least it is a sign that people no longer believe in sensory evidence. Truth shapes and regulates reality; there is no eternal truth, only the rapid decay of truth. In this sense, the myth of reproduction in the age of tools will face the danger of human disintegration: "I know in the decay of all things that everything is nothing but a presumptive truth of the wind" (I am in the decay of all things). Unless man breaks free from his self-superstition of "supposed truths", extracts himself again and claims himself, he can only be reduced to creation and can never activate the creative instinct. How do I claim it? The solution given by Yang Qingxiang is: "Love Blue". In his view, to love blue is to love life, "the phenomenon can say it all." Simple happiness is often in the blue flesh, which is a phenomenon and a truth at the same time, and all non-happy truths are false, just as 'the whole is not true'" (Blue). To put it this way, Yang Qingxiang's "blue" is the individual's happy imagination towards future life, it does not compromise with any given truth, and it thus becomes the truth.

And "blue and blue" makes love embrace each other again, love ideals, love freedom, love life.

Speaking of love, speaking of truth, almost lurks in the intersection of every line of this collection of poems, especially those groups of poems that carry a lot of scars: "The 7th Power of the Epidemic", "Lamentations", "Heart of Europe", five "Truncated Sentences", and "Drinking Ice" Ten. Regarding his hometown, about faith, and about the Creator, Yang Qingxiang has made a huge-scale identification with his experience of being loyal to the soul, the collapsed landscape, the ironic juxtaposition, and the silence of the image, all of which ultimately flock to the self, or the "zero" that is eager to move.

As I said, any technical analysis of Yang Qingxiang's poetry may be ineffective, and that true poetry is both for expression and concealment. Let me borrow nietzsche's voice when he questioned "The Last Wagner" and hide the poems of the poets Yang Qingxiang and Yang Qingxiang more deeply:

- Is this our expression? ——

Did this distraught howl come from the German psyche?

Does this kind of biting of oneself come from the body of a Chinese person?

This kind of priestly laying out,

This aroma is full of exuberance?

This shaking, falling and stumbling,

This elusive clanging sound?

……

Think about it! You're still waiting to be recognized—

For what you are hearing is Rome – Roman intuitive faith!

(Nietzsche: The Other Side of Good and Evil, translated by Zhu Yang, Unity Publishing House, 2001)

It just so happened that I also read "Rome" in Yang Qingxiang's Lamentations, and I thought they were talking about the same thing. It is also here that Yang Qingxiang has achieved the signifier beauty of his poetry.