I Think Therefore

Is Consciousness an abacus?

China, so long ago. But once in a while, I dream about it. And on one occasion, a fever dream at that, where feminist gothic collides with China’s techno-feudal paradoxes.

I’m back in Liaoning province, travelling by slow train from the provincial capital to Xiong Yue Cheng, a bustling little waypoint I’ll always remember fondly for the Chinglish printed in large font on a huge blue sign above the ticket window that read: ‘SELL THE TICKET OFFICE.’ The carriage is sunflower seed husks, jabbering, and elbows. And the train guard always makes me get off at the wrong city.

The city is concretely familiar. Like Haining (HI NING), which makes me think of a boy at school with the same name and realise he had subtle Chinese features, but we never noticed because his name was anglicised to rhyme with ‘raining,’ which sounded very English. What is more English than rain?

So I wander through the dreamscape’s jumpcuts to a square filled with women in polka-dot pyjamas and plastic slippers. They're feeding excuses on 5-and-a-quarter floppies, fragile as lotus petals, into BBC Micro external drives yellowed as opium teeth, each labelled in meticulous Mandarin. One says ‘Self-criticism of Chairman Mao’s dog.’ Another: ‘Reasons your mother wept silently.’ At dawn, the women chant excuses in a hall papered with propaganda posters of Margaret Thatcher arm-wrestling Empress Dowager Cixi.

You might think self-criticism is a relic, but it’s not. I wrote one after visiting a student’s hometown without my passport. Anyway, I wander away. I must away to Xiong Yue Cheng! In my dreams, I’m always trying to get to a place I’ll never reach.

But now I’ve no idea where the station is—dream geography is fluid—so I walk and meet three women beneath a scholar tree painted white at the bottom and hung with lanterns.

“Do you know where the train station is?” I ask.

The Wise One, her eyes twin abacuses, answers. “He who keeps their habitation clean and obeys prison rules wherever their confinement, knows freedom". The Foolish One, face as white as Amy Eskridge, giggles as she balances a pirated DVD on her nose. The Sarcastic One, smoking a Zhongnai cigarette, drawls, “Congratulations, laowai. Seven years in China and you mastered ‘ni hao.’” Then I notice the station.

So I get on the train to Xiong Yue Cheng, and all goes well till the train guard arrives wearing the face of a woman who’s swallowed a sword, murmuring English that may or may not be from The Troublesome Reign of King John. “Is not the causeway weaker than the waves?” she asks matter-of-factly, hand extended.
“Nide shanliang shi wode piao” (your kindness is my ticket), I say.

“Plantagenet, begone! Thou art a shuffling, two-faced hundan!” the guard replies and boots me onto the platform of the same or perhaps another nameless city.

I land a furlong from the Tower of Mists, its studded red gates guarded by a fruit machine with a sign: THE LAOWAI MUST THINK IN ACCORDANCE WITH SOCIALIST PRINCIPLES BEFORE HE ENTERS.

The idea is to hit the jackpot. Spin. I overthink... therefore…I digress. Spin again. I... underthink…therefore…I rant. SPIN AGAIN! I think...therefore...I AM. Bingo! The tower door opens. En route to the chamber of scrolls, there are sights to see.

Frozen concubines hang like chrysalises in a cryogenic wardrobe, their breath preserved in glass vials labelled ‘Regret, Fragrance 2005. New York. Paris. Dalian.’ A wooden chest shrieks when I pass, its latches oozing black tears. It is the Chest of Severed Hopes, its voices a cacophony of women’s laughter and breaking glass. Nay, the voices of brides who’ve burned their dowries.

What is this place? I must get to the top. The scrolls of Bayuquan await in the highest echelon. Their walls bear tablets etched with ancient pontificals: “The BBC Micro is a virtuous wife; she obeys only those who master her syntax.”

A scryer, her face a shifting mosaic of CCTV footage, turns to face me. “Truth or lie?” she hisses. “DeepSeek is conscious.”

“Obviously not true,” I scoff.

“Why-aye,” she spits. “Your reward: a dip in the Pool of Forgotten Empires.”

“What about the scrolls?” I ask.

“You’re not having those.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Ask away. I am the scryer.”

“What happened on June 4th, 1989?”

“Sorry, I cannot answer that, the server is busy... Guards, seize him!”

I offered the guards a VCD of Deng Lijun’s The Moon Represents My Heart—it melted their eyes into sticky tanghulu syrup. Time to make my escape.

I fled through a wind hole into the Gobi night. Yes, the Gobi Desert is a thousand or more miles west, but this is a dream. And there is the train station. Back on the hard seat, I know this time I’m definitely going to Xiong Yue Cheng, that is until the train guard appears. When I can’t produce ID, she demands I repeat, “Wǒde hùzhào bèi yāo guǐ tōu le!” (“My passport was stolen by fox spirits!”) thrice, then boots me off the train. At least I’m learning Chinese.

I don’t know where I am. I must ask the three blind influencers. One says, “I lecture people about slavery 200 years ago on TikTok whilst ironically saying nothing about modern-day slavery in China...”

Another, “I’m trying to throw Britain into the Dark Ages even though the UK’s current emissions are 1 percent and China’s 35.”

“I’ve posted about Gaza incessantly but weirdly never the UN human rights report on Xin—”

“Are you the left-wing three blind influencers?” I interrupt.

“We can be right-wing too! We can be right-wing too!” they chant.

“I am the secret homophobe. Ranting about trans people is my safe space!”

“I rail against Welfarism but I’m on benefits!”

“I decry left-wing hypocrisy about Xinjiang but I actually don’t care about Muslims and am starting to think China could teach us a few things! They’re integration and social-cohesion experts.”

“Just tell me the way to the train station,” I say.

But the blind influencers stop smiling and chant, “Go first to the Dragon Spring Bathhouse. Scrub your imperialist stink.”

The Dragon Spring Bathhouse is a neon feast for sore eyes. I hand over shoes, exchange for plastic slippers and a locker key. A young man shows me the ropes. In the corner, a toothless man winds a gramophone and plays Paper Tiger, an old David Archer Birch 45 about fading Britain. “Rule Britannia? Naïve panda! Your empire’s a deflated balloon...” It’s a dream! It gets the lyrics wrong, okay?

Ever been to a Chinese bathhouse? The lounge often has live entertainment, and the smaller and dirtier the city, the more raucous it gets. Like working men’s clubs in the 70s. So I guess it’s appropriate that Morecambe and Wise walk on…

“There’s been a bit of a fuss—people going missing, families split up. All a terrible misunderstanding, of course,” Eric says.
“Oh yes, naturally. It’s all voluntary. They want to be re-educated,” Ernie replies. “Exactly! Just like you wanted that haircut last week.”
“I didn’t want that haircut! You held me down!” Ernie says.
“And now look how neat you are! See. You look…what’s the word?” Eric asks.
The Chinese compere speaks. “You are very shuai ge,” she says, the Chinese word for handsome. “Do you think so Eric?”
“Exactly. Just the word I was-Now look. This is not the Morecambe-Wise shipping sketch, this is about the Uyghur people. I mean, just because we sleep in the same bed, doesn’t mean-” An Uyghur enters to applause. “Yes, can I help?”
“I’m here to ask about my wife. She was taken,” the Uyghur says. Eric shuffles papers.
“Taken? Taken where? We don’t take people. No no no no. They go on cultural exchanges!”
“Yes!” Ernie adds. “A little holiday, see the countryside, pick some cotton. All expenses paid!”
“That’s right. We keep the profits.” Eric adds.
“That’s right. What, be quiet! Now, as for your wife—she’s thriving!” Ernie explains. “Absolutely,” Eric says. “We have a letter here. Er, Dear husband, everything is very wonderful, learning Mandarin, no gang rape, electrocution, forced indoctrination or swearing allegiance to Xi Jinping. You heard that? SEE JINPING, not G JINPING.”
“That’s right. Your pronunciation’s very good,” Ernie says.
“That paper’s blank,” says the Ugyhur.
“We like to leave room for personal interpretation,” Eric explains. "Now, will you do a little dance for us? Ladies and gentleman, the happy ethnic minority dance you all love so much!”
The Uyghur dances with a rictus smile.A trap door opens beneath him and the audience wail with laughter.

“Oh dear. I think the truth’s trying to escape!” Ernie says.

“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how we deal with troublemakers!” says Eric.

But laughter soon turns to tears. Ernie and Eric are hauled off (for their safety). The curtain descends. The compere nervously quips, “Why did the Uyghur marry the Han? To prove the people’s algorithm computes love!”

A riot starts anyway. Anger at Western double-standards- the slave trade, the Iraq war, expansionism, the electric chair FFS! Or maybe they just think don’t like Ernie refusing the beers thrown at him.
“Show me the girls!” I say. On the third floor a phalanx of ice maidens narrow their eyes.
“I want the farm girls,” I say.
“One floor down,” the boy says. I select the largest, who asks if I'm married, but then I look down and see a rancid mist coiling around my ankles. I get this sinking feeling, like it might be time to put my affairs in order. Has this followed me from the Tower of Mists? Am I cursed by the Ice Maidens? The mist hisses, “Nǐde jièkǒu shì nǐde zújī…” (Your excuses are shackles).
“This girl will now cut off your genitals if you follow her,” the boys says.
“I thought this was a bathhouse. No sex change today, please.”
“You need to wash before we make you a harem watchdog. Otherwise you might get infection.” The farm girls giggle, their hands morphing into scissors. “Snip snip, Mr. Tiger,” they sing.
Oh yes, should have known better. I never get anywhere in my dreams. Time to escape. I’m a wanted man. I run and run and run. If I keep running I’ll be back at where I started. Best slow down. Ah, there’s the train. I try to look inconspicuous and walk right to the carriage end. But the train guard beats me to it, too cute in her cap.
“The Troublesome Reign,” she murmurs. “Act V: The Bastard’s Lament.”
And the mist? It’s wrapped around me like a serpent muttering, “You know what the matriarchs with floppy disk excuses say? ‘This train doesn’t stop at redemption. Silly rabbit.’ ”
The train guard shakes her head. "Pride hath no other glass to show itself but pride itself." Then she makes me say Nǐ de mèng zhǐ néng dào zhèlǐ le (your dream can only go so far) 3 times and kicks me off the train. I must disguise myself to rid myself of the cursed vapour which swirls about me. So I find an indoor market in Bayuquan many miles east. Then I buy a clown suit and get a taxi to xiong yue cheng but the taxi driver keeps reading entries from a 1978 North West London phone book and it seems to signify my complete insignificance.
Finally, he drops me off at a fresh pauper’s grave gaping open for me to climb into. No tombstone. All that effort composing a Baconian cipher for my epitaph! But a tombstone fades almost as swift as a dream, grand-scheme. And this IS a dream. I’ll do whatever I like. I’m not lieing down and rotting like some tangping youth. So I get on the train again hoping to get to Xiong Yue Cheng. Ain’t never gonna. But it's a nice dream.

(From the scrolls of Bayuquan. The matriarchs of the phantom city would later call him Ménglóng Zhě Yingerlan ren—the Befuddled Englishman).