What Exactly Is Creepy?

Recently, temperatures have been dropping across the country. I went to Zaney’s place to listen to his turntable. He played a Nujabes vinyl from 2001. There was no heating in the apartment. Before long, my legs began to stiffen.

Zaney’s home, like mine, has a natural quality to it: cold in winter, hot in summer.

We went downstairs to a Korean snack place he had mentioned many times before. We had tofu stew and grilled pork belly, and I recovered a little. My knees were still stiff.

When we climbed back up to the fifth floor, Zaney’s mother had already returned from work. The television was locked onto the news channel. The anchor’s manufactured seriousness and concern made me nauseous. I hadn’t watched television in a long time. Strangely, it felt fresh.

The news kept reporting on snow conditions across the country. A truck had stalled on the road due to the cold. The driver waited for rescue in a cargo cabin at minus twenty degrees Celsius. The footage showed him crying inside the truck. I thought: he has had a genuine brush with death. From now on, he may see life differently.

What followed was mostly about snow-melting salt—how many vehicles were deployed to spread snow-melting salt, how much snow-melting salt had already been spread, how to spread snow-melting salt more efficiently. There were also videos of cars sliding around on icy roads, skidding and circling as if nothing had been learned. They looked creepy. Under the cold fluorescent light, the living room fell into dullness.

I have never really seen snow, unless sleet counts. In 2015, Zaney and I went to Shanghai for the Biennale. Ehom, my childhood friend who came with us, spent the entire trip hoping it would snow. I didn’t care. Before I see something with my own eyes, most expectations mean nothing to me.

We walked out of an IKEA that had closed early for unknown reasons, cheap hot dogs still not fully swallowed, when sleet began to fall from the sky. There was nothing to look at. No vibe at all. When we returned to the Bund and were about to turn onto Fuzhou Road, I felt my ears no longer belonged to my body. I don’t like cold. I’ve heard that the most comfortable temperature for humans is 26 degrees Celsius—but if the world stayed at that temperature forever, that would be creepy too.

Sometimes cold has meaning. It makes certain foods more comforting. The Chinese writer Shu Guozhi once wrote, in his essay In Praise of the Radish: “In oden, large chunks of radish simmered together with molded fish paste are a clever Japanese invention…” When you finish reading that sentence and realize there is no steaming bowl of oden in front of you, you feel slightly angry.

More importantly, without a carefully prepared kombu broth, it’s just an ordinary pot of oden. Creepy. Like something from a third-rate convenience store. I’ve eaten plenty of third-rate convenience store oden. I don’t want to touch that stuff anymore.

It has snowed in Tokyo recently. Gugu, who lives there, bundled herself up and spent an entire day playing in the snow. I saw many images of her from different angles—southern people’s sudden excitement. It snowed in Shanghai too. Sudden excitement from Shanghai people. It rained in Fuzhou. I couldn’t get a cab after work. I felt no excitement at all.

A few days later, it got even colder. Guling also snowed. From the images I saw, it didn’t look like the snow in Shanghai or Tokyo. It looked more like shaved ice. I had no interest in seeing it in person. Living in the city, I lose interest in all activities one minute after stepping outside.

That night, when I got home, Yu said the road up to Guling was completely jammed—so many people had gone up to see the snow. Locals are really creepy. Actually enjoying shaved ice.

This winter, I am still resisting puffer jackets. I’ve never owned one. They have no aesthetic value. I once saw a university classmate of Zaney’s wearing one and thought of the Michelin Man. Extremely creepy.

I want to buy a new cashmere sweater. The one I’m wearing now belonged to my father more than ten years ago. The holes in it might look creepy, but to me it isn’t old. Constantly buying new clothes is creepy. Some old clothes are good. I have a T-shirt with four holes in it. It’s still my pajamas. When I own a yacht someday, I’ll still wear it, rolling around on the deck. Rich people are creepy.

One day, a little girl was choosing washi tape in our bookstore. She muttered, “If I were a little girl, which one would I choose?” It looked cute, but it felt creepy. She might not actually be a little girl. Maybe Ai Haibara is among us.

I also saw another little girl who always appeared with her father. The way she looked at him was the way one looks at a lover. If that man, with streaks of gray hair, were actually her boyfriend, that would be extremely creepy. There are too many creepy things now. Sometimes they don’t even feel that creepy anymore.

Tang Lanlan’s case is creepy. Reports by The Paper were creepy. He Xingli’s actions are creepy. The stock market crash is, of course, creepy. Consensual teacher–student relationships, underage compensated dating, girls seeking patrons—perhaps we’ve become numb to the point where none of it feels particularly creepy anymore.

Launching an electric supercar into space while it plays David Bowie is also creepy.

Creepy is Zaney covering one wall of his room with light gray wallpaper. If he hung a glowing Apple logo in the center, his room would become an Apple Store. That’s creepy—especially since he doesn’t even own that many Apple products.

After the wallpaper was finished, we listened to two Bill Evans records. Oh, and Chet Baker—I Fall in Love Too Easily. I think this song suits Ckoney. He’s always like that. A bit creepy. Caleb Belkin has a lo-fi remix of the song. When I listen to it, I can’t help moving my body along with the melody. I move in a creepy way.

A few days later, I played a Bill Evans playlist in the shop. A state-owned bookstore playing jazz is creepy. But jazz is jazz. Jazz is a hallucinogen that stays outside the body. Jazz is also creepy.

This country makes me feel creepier and creepier. Every day, I have to numb myself with large doses of music, art, and words. These great things make you believe you still have control over your own life.

Belief is a kind of mysticism. You only believe what you choose to believe, regardless of whether it’s truth or justice. You believe what others make you believe. Once you confuse belief with justice, you no longer have any worries. Belief is a creepy force.

I don’t want to believe anymore.