erin zhu

 

 

ERIN ZHU
webex

VOCATIONAL VICTIM

 

victimology, n. “The study of the victims of crime, esp. of the psychological effects on them of their experience. Hence victimologist.

1958 New Statesman 5 July 6/1 We ought to establish a new science of victimology with chairs at the universities, field workers studying the effects rather than the causes of crime, and a special department assessing the impact of sex-crime on women. 1964 Economist 1 Feb. 417/1‘Victimology’, an unusual aspect of the sociology of murder. 1971 Time 5 July 46 Some victimologists contend that rape victims invite attack. 1978 Practitioner Feb. 301/1 Any one of these fields of study—stress, coping, captivity, victimology—is a springboard for analysing the particular plight of the victim of terrorism.” (The Oxford English Dictionary)

 

At the time the following emails were written, Erin Zhu identified Michael Zeleny as her best friend, encouraged him to read her amorous correspondence, and sought out his advice in connection with wooing her illustrious beloved. Copies of these emails remain on file as public record. They can be found in the Santa Clara Superior Court case files of Zeleny v. Zhu & WebEx, Zelyony v. Zhu, and Affeld v. Zhu, all settled by the defendants in 2004. Erin Zhu has authenticated them under oath in her depositions taken in these cases.

 


Erin Zhu and Blixa Bargeld

 

Erin’s narratives lend themselves to sound bites that shed light on the juncture between victimology and starfucking:

I was not born and raised a nice girl — after all I am my father’s daughter, and I inherited so much from him, his murderous rage, his overwhelming ambitions, his sarcastic contempt, his sadistic streak.
I will not be a monster like my father; I am determined and sure of that much.
— Erin Zhu to Blixa Bargeld, 25 Nov 99 20:14:42 PST

She then explains the monstrosity:

the summer when I was fourteen, my father suddenly changed his tune when my mother left for an extended visit to China. he took off my clothes, praised my naked form held up to a bathroom mirror, and devoured my body with his lust.
I wanted to die; I tried to kill. I did not succeed in either.
— Erin Zhu to Blixa Bargeld, 27 Dec 99 13:40:45 PST

Shortly after presenting her childhood rape claims against Min Zhu Erin accepts her parents’ offer of fraudulent settlement. The next day she informs her beloved:

I have always identified myself with creative, bohemian, fringe elements of society, yet I was driving to a local office of a major investment bank the other day to meet a vice president from their “private wealth management” division.
— Erin Zhu to Blixa Bargeld, 21 Mar 00 04:14:11 PST

The next week, Erin signs the settlement papers. The same day she tells Blixa Bargeld how she made her fortune:

What happened? I sold the technology for the main business I was working on to a Hollywood-backed Internet entertainment site that is going public in a couple of months. As with all such deals, since what I actually get is primarily in their stock, the final price is highly variable and still unknown at this time, I won’t have much cash probably until the end of the year, and it’s unlikely that what I built will actually see the light of day since they bought me out to eliminate competition. But even so, even after paying off the legal teams and the investors and the huge amount that goes to taxes, assuming the stock market and economy does not completely crash this year, I will have enough left to never have to work for money again.
— Erin Zhu to Blixa Bargeld, 30 Mar 00 20:17:31 PST

And she never did. Erin Zhu married Blixa Bargeld soon after her financial disclosures. As described in the referenced lawsuits, the newlyweds celebrated their nuptials by maxing out the credit card that Isaak Zelyony had loaned to Erin to tide her over while she was waiting for her blood money from Min Zhu. Since then, Einstürzende Neubauten has credited her as their executive producer and webmaster:

 


The Einstürzende Neubauten supporter program was touted as a radical transformation of the business of music. But like all her prior ventures, Erin’s “business unconventionalism” came to nothing:

 

 

 

 

“In a sense the victim shapes and moulds the criminal. The poor and ignorant immigrant has bred a peculiar kind of fraud. Depressions and wars are responsible for new forms of crimes because new types of potential victims are brought into being. It would not be correct nor to speak of a carnivorous animal, its habits and characteristics, without looking at the prey on which it lives. In a certain sense the animals which devour and those that are devoured complement one another. Although it looks one-sided as far as the final outcome goes, it is not a totally unilateral form of relationships. They work upon each other profoundly and continually, even before the moment of disaster. To know one we must be acquainted with the complementary partner.”

—Hans von Hentig, The Criminal & his Victim,‎ 1948

 

Received: from 204.68.24.39 by www0j for [209.79.189.211] via web-mailer(M3.3.1.96) on Mon Dec 27 21:40:45 GMT 1999
Date: 27 Dec 99 13:40:45 PST
From: Eryn Zhu <eryn74@netscape.net>
To: Blixa Bargeld <axel.grabbild@gmx.net>
Subject: loneliness
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kills the soul, they say.

what can they know of it, I wonder, they who have never lived
in my skin, listened to my thoughts, dreamed in my mind?  yet
they are able to write about loneliness with such conviction,
such empathy, that even from the distance of the printed page
I am touched by the spirit of their words, and find my own
loneliness eased by the distant sharing.

such are the powers of the word, the thought rendered concrete,
so that even without its original human context, displaced by
the passage of time, flattened into the rigid form of text,
ghosts of strangers from bygone eras can whisper in my ear and
remind me more acutely of my ties to the rest of humanity than
all the flesh and blood people I live amongst.

once upon a time when I still lived in China, I wanted to be a
writer; the cultural and linguistic uprooting and the demands
of practicality managed to put an end to that soon after.
perhaps I will want to be a writer again.  perhaps I will try
to write.  I have always been more comfortable in the realm of
pure thoughts and words than anything material; the result of
many years of living in my head and feeling detached from my
body, I suppose.

in my occasional forays into philosophy I'd always been
fascinated by the eternal questions around the mind and truth:
the mind body duality, the question of other minds, the
paradox of the liar, etc.  I have never felt a great deal of
necessary connection between my mind and my body; never mind
the question of which body part(s) the essential "I" may or
may not live in, it seems a purely accidental fact that I
even come bundled with this physical shape.  yet I suspect
that I would cease to exist if this body died...  the other
questions are somewhat easier to resolve: I can escape
solipsism because I have met enough people out there who do
not think in a way that I understand at all; I can deal with
the liar paradox by turning to the meta-theories of mathematics.

I have never been particularly comfortable with my body.
since I was a child my parents told me that I was plain,
that my face deviated in too many ways from the Chinese
standards of beauty.  when I reached puberty I was told that
I'd have to rely on my brains to make my way in the world,
since I'd never get anywhere based on my looks.  so I wore
my brother's castoff clothes, sympathized with the ugly
stepsisters, and never dreamed of handsome princes on white
horses.

the summer when I was fourteen, my father suddenly changed
his tune when my mother left for an extended visit to China.
he took off my clothes, praised my naked form held up to a
bathroom mirror, and devoured my body with his lust.
I wanted to die; I tried to kill.  I did not succeed in either.
instead I learned to disassociate my mind, to build walls in
my head so that I do not feel.

I live with the residuals to this day: a lingering discomfort
with my body; the need to retain control, and an inability to
stop thinking, even in the most intimate situations; a body
that cannot feel pleasure with anybody I did not completely
trust.  The latter has been remarkably effective in protecting
my virtue: the few attempts I'd made at casual sex ended as
spectacular failures.

maybe this helps explain why I did not expect to sleep with
you in New York; and why I said that I did not, generally
speaking, trust men.  trust makes me vulnerable, a condition
I react badly to because I have been scarred before.  until
you touched me, I did not think that I would trust you: my
body is a drawbridge to my soul and I am not in the habit of
granting entry to strangers.

I don't quite know why an exception was made for you; that's
one reason why I keep writing, I suppose, and why I want to
know you better.

I don't know how meaningful it is to you, that you are one of
only a few people in the world that I trust, and none of them
my own family.

I hope you will not give me cause for regret.

perhaps I've said too much already?

Erin

____________________________________________________________________
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Received: from 204.68.24.51 by www0v for [209.79.189.211] via web-mailer(M3.3.1.96) on Fri Nov 26 04:14:42 GMT 1999
Date: 25 Nov 99 20:14:42 PST
From: Eryn Zhu <eryn74@netscape.net>
To: Blixa Bargeld <axel.grabbild@gmx.net>
Subject: memories
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Crossing the busy streets of Hong Kong the other day, my mother
held on to my hand, a gesture that reversed roles we'd played
so long ago.  She trusts me, her estranged and prodigal daughter,
to guide her safely around the reckless vehicles, I think to
myself, and am strangely touched by the thought.  I had never
been particularly close to my mother; growing up she had always
openly favored my brother, and had little patience or affection
for me.  It was only after I'd left home and became a grown
woman that she started making overtures of friendship.  To think
that we had to come half a world away to renew the tenuous ties
of blood between us...

It surprises me still, how much I want her to at least accept me
and approve of what I do, even after all these years when I told
myself that I did not care.

She and I sat in the dark watching the glittering Hong Kong
skyline, and spoke of our disparate rememberances of the past.
Left unspoken between us was the fact that neither of us could
think of any happy memories of my childhood.  She told stories
of me as a baby; I told her small pieces of triumph from my
more recent past; the long years that stretched between age three
through sixteen went untouched, bypassed with a shake of the
head and mutterings of "there were historical reasons"...

Eventually she wanted to know if I was going to find myself a
nice boy, preferably Asian of course.  I did not have the words
to tell her what I thought: I lived with a nice boy, mama;
when I found myself more lonely in his arms than without I told
him to leave...  He was too nice for me, mama; I could not even
tell him what I really thought for fear of damaging him.  I was not
born and raised a nice girl -- after all I am my father's daughter,
and I inherited so much from him, his murderous rage, his
overwhelming ambitions, his sarcastic contempt, his sadistic streak.  Sure,
talk to my friends and acquaintances and they will tell you, I
am a nice person, considerate of other people's feelings, loyal to
my friends, generous with my money and assistance, though somewhat
anti-social and a persistent loner.  Little do they know the degree
of control I maintain to lock away the undesirable impulses; it is
after all better for me to turn away and seek refuge in my books and
my work than take it out on real live people.

I will not be a monster like my father; I am determined and sure of
that much.  I also cannot, I discovered, live with a man who does not
have a basis for understanding why I wake up with violent nightmares
and the constant restraint I exercise to not hurt him.  And I do not
want anyone that reminds me of my father, of course...  So I keep to
myself a great deal, and give my mother a vague little response about
how I am in no hurry.

You asked me once why I wrote to you; I've met very few people in my
life that can understand the contradictions in my head.  That I am
aware of, and am drawn to, many dark areas of the human psyche,
but am sufficiently rational and responsible to be a good person.
That I have faith in basic human decency, even though I did not come
to that by way of innocent naivete or blind religious compliance.
And I thought that perhaps there was a slim chance that you might
understand, that communication might be possible despite the vast
ocean of differences between us.  That would be worth far more to me
than any sort of physical intimacy.  Does this make any sense?

I think I've said enough for now.

yours,
Erin

Received: from 204.68.24.50 by www0u for [207.214.220.88] via web-mailer(M3.3.1.96) on Tue Mar 21 12:14:11 GMT 2000
Date: 21 Mar 00 04:14:11 PST
From: Eryn Zhu <eryn74@netscape.net>
To: Blixa Bargeld <axel.grabbild@gmx.net>
Subject: me, myself, and I
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Forgive me for returning to the format of a monologue about
my life and state of mind.

It is 3:30 in the morning, I've recently awaken after a couple
of hours of sleep with a vague feeling of dread, and know from
experience that I must keep myself awake until this state passes
or else my slumber would be disturbed by fullbown nightmares.
The curse of memory, of the past clinging to life in the hours
when the unconscious rules supreme.

In my late teens I was forced to re-evaluate almost everything
I thought to be self-evident about myself and my life because
of some choices I had made; but I was a poor student then,
my head filled with dreams of Platonic ideals, and many decisions
were easy.

The past several months, I have felt the need to reconsider the
distance between my present reality, my perception of myself,
and the possibilities for the future.  The gap between reality
and perception is perhaps the most troublesome.  It exhibits
itself in small things, for example in my conscious appreciation
of sleek wide open modern architectural styles of steel,
concrete, glass, and wood, but at home I find myself most
comfortable when I have a cozy area to curl up with a book.  Or
the fact that I have always identified myself with creative,
bohemian, fringe elements of society, yet I was driving to a
local office of a major investment bank the other day to meet
a vice president from their "private wealth management" division.
Or for that matter, me thinking that I might like to settle down
into comfortable couplehood, while in fact turning away several
possibly realistic boys and finding myself attracted to someone
completely unsuitable.

So: I will be taking the occasion of my upcoming birthday to
contemplate an alignment between perception and reality -- to
figure out not just who I want to be, but who I should be, and
to impose that over all relevant aspects of my life, in both
action and desires.  Whether it's my Asian need for spiritual
exercise, or an unrequited manifestation of dialectical
materialism, I cannot say.

Perhaps it is only the brightness of the full moon high in the
heavens, which for the Chinese has always been a bringer of
melancholy meditations and homesickness.

regards,
Erin

____________________________________________________________________
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Received: from 204.68.24.81 by ww181 for [63.202.80.134] via web-mailer(M3.3.1.96) on Fri Mar 31 04:17:31 GMT 2000
Date: 30 Mar 00 20:17:31 PST
From: Eryn Zhu <eryn74@netscape.net>
To: Blixa Bargeld <axel.grabbild@gmx.net>
Subject: backwards glance
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Dear Blixa,

Thank you for your note.

I'm back at home.  Signed the papers, drank a glass of
champagne, sold out successfully.

What happened? I sold the technology for the main business
I was working on to a Hollywood-backed Internet
entertainment site that is going public in a couple of
months.  As with all such deals, since what I actually
get is primarily in their stock, the final price is
highly variable and still unknown at this time, I won't
have much cash probably until the end of the year, and
it's unlikely that what I built will actually see the
light of day since they bought me out to eliminate
competition.  But even so, even after paying off the
legal teams and the investors and the huge amount that
goes to taxes, assuming the stock market and economy does
not completely crash this year, I will have enough left
to never have to work for money again.

It feels very strange to be sitting here on the last day
of my 25th year waiting for that fact to actually sink in.
It is a problem with the modern economy that I don't even
have anything more concrete than sheets of paper to make
it feel more real.

I am sorry I have been so touchy and on edge recently;
this entire process has been very wearing on my nerves.

And I miss you.

Erin

____________________________________________________________________
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8 Comments on "erin zhu"

  1. in personam 3 April 2010 at 19:28 · Reply

    this page helps me building ONE single opinion:

    you, sir, are pretty pathetic and pitiful…!

    • admin 3 June 2010 at 00:15 · Reply

      Another Keyboard Kommando heard from. Try signing your name to lend authority to your insults. Better yet, dare to deliver them in person.

  2. dem 19 January 2012 at 23:19 · Reply

    What beautiful and heart wrenching letters, who could help but fall for her?

    • harold 15 September 2013 at 19:33 · Reply

      barf.

  3. Your Soul 24 May 2012 at 21:02 · Reply

    You need to seek help immediately – you are completely insane. But I’m sure you’ve heard this many, many times.

    • admin 31 May 2012 at 19:42 · Reply

      Dear fan,
      At the outset of my 2005 Bay Area protests, after the San Francisco Police Department detained me for psychological evaluation, the tests came out negative, deeming me fit to be released on my own recognizance. Seven years later, my dentist assures me that every screw in my head has been tightened to 25 Newton-meters. But the best proof of my sanity is implied by the failure of my gracious Sand Hill Road billionaire hosts to have me involuntarily confined and disqualified from possessing firearms due to a mental disorder that makes me a danger to myself and/or others, pursuant to Section 5150 the California Welfare and Institutions Code. In other words, each time you see me exercising my inalienable rights under the First and Second Amendments to the Constitution of the United States, my sanity is attested by over 13 billion dollars under NEA’s management, whose ethical failures are exposed by my ongoing appearances in front of their grounds.

  4. Jennie Blackheart 30 January 2014 at 12:41 · Reply

    Jealousy has consumed what ever soul you may have had.

  5. fred s 4 December 2016 at 20:48 · Reply

    sorry we never got to meet

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