Perhaps it was too much to ask. These people don't feel pain when you bleed, and they will move on when you die. The last thing they care about is what you want to call yourself.

Last time, they declared two names null and void. You can't call yourself "Linden Chai and Ko-ng Lui," because that's a lie, that's not your name. There are rules.

This time, they christened us with one we never chose. "Water revolution," because human bodies are over 50% water. Every revolution needs a name, said Jamil Anderlini. There are rules.

All names are made up. Some names are made real.

Henry Wei Leung was right to say that "Umbrella Revolution" was a name stamped on by foreign press. Check the flesh behind your shoulder, there's the imprint.

The guy who claims to have first used the term advertises this on his Twitter bio. He, for present purposes, will remain nameless.

Friends, what shall we call ourselves? Keep in mind this is the last thing that will survive when all of us, and I mean all of us, are forgotten.

Anti-extradition law amendment bill movement, or anti-ELAB. But no, we are not what we oppose.

Pro-democracy, anti-government, anti-capitalist, anti-communist, anti-imperialist, anti-China. In short: pro-good and anti-bad. But a name is not a description.

We already have names, you say, the problem is there are too many. Well, either you'll be ruthless or someone else will. Five years from now we get summarized within the length of a sneeze.

Too late, they picked it for you. It's #hardhatrevolution now. 

Yeah, because you're the only ones in fucking history who wore helmets. That's why they picked it, because it so deftly captures your virtues and failures and and doomed aspirations.

A slave's name is their last battle. For their masters, it is the first instinct. Repeat after me: my name is hat.

​In the summer of 2014 I travelled with Mashiat Rabbani and Jeffrey Wong to Dunedin, New Zealand for what would be a mostly unremarkable debate tournament. We didn't come first and we didn't end up last. A day of rest was scheduled mid-way through the competition, and as our team would proceed no further, we had the luxury to do whatever we wanted. Mashiat said she wanted to hike up to Larnach Castle, on a mountainside overlooking the city, and I agreed to go with her. 

On the first days of 2017 I was alone in a cabin in upstate New York trying my hardest to write. I had not yet disabused myself of the Walden fantasy, and I wanted a quiet place where I could see stars. The sun rose at seven and set at five: I took short excursions in the morning, and in the afternoon I would lie on my back, peering out the window at an odd angle, and read. My retreat was meant to last five days. I made generous estimates for food and drink, and most of the time I wanted for nothing. Much to my disappointment the neighbourhood was not deserted; many had put up “no trespassing” signs, and although I didn’t see anybody I felt cheated of my solitude. It occurred to me that I had perhaps not paid enough. What I wanted in truth was some sort of secluded mountain temple, and to be fair, if I owned one I wouldn’t put it up for rent.​

Xu Xi, Dear Hong Kong (Penguin, 2017), 144pp.

As I was reading Xu Xi’s latest book, Dear Hong Kong, I recalled an episode from my youth. When I was in primary two, about eight years old, I was introduced to a group of children two years my senior. They were by a large margin the best kids in my school, and my mother had hoped I would tag along and learn something. The best among that circle was John, obviously, since he was perfect. When he graduated primary school, his mother sent him to Dulwich.

Last week I wrote a preview of Regarding O, a theatrical production by Herstory Polygon, for Still / Loud magazine. Now that I've seen it, I have some more thoughts. (Spoilers ahead.)

In the line-up for this year's Art Basel, nothing is more provocative—and downright subversive—than a mixed-media collage by newcomer Justin Bergman titled “Beyond Art Basel: a Guide for Wanderers.”