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.
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.
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.”