This week assignment is to use the tension of inner and outer world (i.e. what people said and what they actually meant). We took the format of “inTranslation”, one of the 55 stories in John Gould’s latest book, Kilter.
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“Hey where are you going, dear?” I ask, meaning, It’s Mid Autumn Festival. And you should know how important family dinner is for our family. Stay home to help me prepare the dinner.
“Ya grandma, having a quick drink with Lev. Be back soon.” She replies, meaning Grandma is probably getting old and lonely. Sometimes she could be a control freak.
“Love? Soooo, another white boyfriend? Dear, do you understand….” I ask, meaning, I don’t understand why my good girl never dates the right person, the right kind that will be just like us.
“Gran, it’s Lev, L-E-V, and don’t call him another white guy.” She interrupts, “Lev is my classmate at Columbia. Damn smart, upstate New Yorker, quite a catch.” She says, with the image of Lev flashes in her head. Well, I am telling you JSYK, none your business really. I am of age anyway. Oh did I say Lev is Jewish?
“Well sweetie, don’t you understand, though we moved here when you mom was young, we are still Chinese. We should be proud our history and culture….” I say, meaning, you should be really proud of being Chinese and try to carry the heritage.
“Yeh…Yeh, you are right, grandma!” she says, hinting OMG, grandma is starting her lecture again on the five thousand years of history, culture’s superiority blah blah. Seriously, I don’t give a shit!
“You are not listening dear.”
“Gran, what about Sue and Bob? Bob cannot speak Chinese and I bet I know more Chinese history than him, thanks to you” she says, meaning Haha, you should preach this whole marrying Chinese crap to your daughter, not me.
“Dear, please don’t call your mom and dad by first name. You know, dear, it is not very polite.” I say, thinking, See what this country has taught the kids. It’s nothing like what we leant – respect, filial piety, virtue, responsibility.
“Ok, Mom and Dad. Dad is an American since born.” She says, meaning What’s the difference from Lev? And Grandma, I am American, not Chinese, to be exact.
“At least your dad carries the Chinese last name and face, as a matter of fact.” I say, thinking
You think I don’t want your mom to marry a real Chinese guy? But I was getting desperate that she was still single at 35. Whoever proposed to her, I would have said yes, as long as he is a man.
“All right already” Gonna be late. Let me go.
“Why don’t I invite Mrs. Cheung and Mrs. Chan’s sons over for a dinner this Saturday? Their sons are both very good men and have their own businesses” They seems to get along quite well with my dear last time. Maybe they just need more push.
“Grandma, pleeeeeeease.” Fuhhgeddaboutit, no more chauvinistic dumb hobbits. Those dude guys almost bored me to death last time.
“Well…., your friends’ sons are all very nice but they are… they are just too good for me, you know.” Are you kidding? Businesses? Me spending rest of my life serving Chinese food, or selling veggie, or chopping pork meat down at Canal Street? Yuk!
“OK then. I sigh. Maybe I have said too much.
“Hey Grandma, you know what. Jet Li’s latest movie, Fearless, is out. The Departed, the Hollywood version of Andrew Lau’s Internal Affair is out too. I can buy both DVDs at an up-stair store at Canal Street. It’s really cheap!” She says, thinking, the DVDs can at least occupy grandma for another 2 weeks. But I have to buy this alone after meeting Lev. He wouldn’t like his girl buying pirate.
She was gone.
“Culture, history, identity, are they still important? I ponder the question again and again, meaning, maybe I should be happy as a nomad.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Monday, October 23, 2006
The Hamelin Sisters - Piped Piper rewrite
This is my creative writing 3 - integrating fairytales with real life. The Hamelin sisters was inspired by the story of piped piper.
Sonya Hamelin was born as a cripple and her two-year-younger sister Sophia Hamelin became blind after a severe fever when she was five. On that Sunday, the day that left the village with deep grievance twenty years ago, a piper lured the children to follow him. Lumbering, struggling and squabbling along the way, the sisters worried that they would miss out the festivity. “twenty-two, twenty-three …..eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one”, the piper was counting the kids when they stepped into the cliff. He paused when he saw the last two, the Hamelin sisters. His heart softened. He pulled the sisters off the cliff and took them back home miles away. First time ever, the sisters’ handicap was a blessing in disguise.
At the beginning, the sisters’ new lives were nothing but homesickness and nostalgia: the smell of chicken casserole with mom’s secret mushroom source, the memory of stone fireplace where the sisters would cuddle nearby and listen to dad’s fairytales, and the jiggle and giggle at school. The sisters thought about sneaking back to the village and they actually did try a couple of times. Yet the return path stretched ahead was long and winding, and became a dreadful labyrinth whenever piper blew his pipe. Every escape so far had ended with unwilling footsteps back to where they started.
After the disappearance of these ninety-three kids, the mayor decided to ban all the music, blaming music would remind villagers the sorrow of their loss. Nevertheless, everyone knew real reason behind mayor’s fear of music. Music reminded and shamed him of his greediness which angered the piper, and his incompetence to rescue the children. Since then, not only the children’s lives had gone, but also the spirit of the village and heart of the adults, slowly and gradually evaporated like mist.
Twenty years went by. Sonya and Sophia had grown into two wise and kind-hearted young ladies. They were gifted in music and very good at pipes. But their real talent was singing. If piper’s pipe was hypnotic, Hamelin sisters’ singing was healing and forgiving. Their voice revitalized the dying upstream salmons, restored the blossom of the wilted gardens and refreshed the stale rivers. Slowly but miraculously, Sonya regained the strength to walk while Sophia recovered her eyesight.
The piper himself was getting famous. He was hired by the world power to fight or hypnotize enemies in Far East, Persian and Goguryeo ..etc. He would be gone for days, sometimes weeks, occasionally months. One day, piper set off for another mission. The Hamelin sisters felt it was the time to return. Birds and animals, attracted by the sisters’ singing along their way, acted as the navigator during the day and guardian during the night. Seven days and nights after, the sisters were back to their village.
There was not a happy soul in sight. Indeed, the whole village was overwhelmed by depression, moan, and a smell of sickness. A passerby told the sisters better to leave soon as the village was attacked by a mysterious rampant disease called SARS, which had killed families, infected hundreds and put thousands into quarantine. The sisters approached the mayor and claimed that they could help. The mayor frowned and hesitated at first, recalling what had happened twenty years ago. Seeing the village ravaged by the disease, he had no choice but let them try.
The sisters started singing to the dying patients, hospitals after hospitals, home after home. Their singing was enchanting, soothing and rejuvenating. It penetrated piles of depleted and gangling bodies. Slowly and miraculously, each of the patients was then able to sit up, then stand and walk with their full energy again. Families and friends rejoiced. The whole village celebrated. The mayor learnt the lesson and handed the sisters a heavy bag of golden schilling. The sisters refused and started to sing again.
We were the Hamelin sisters - part of the ninety-three
Our misfortunate gained piper’s pity and set us free
Money or power we don’t need, but only the one thing you fear
Music fills the body with peace, the mind with creativity,The heart with love, the soul with complete union.
The mayor agreed to lift up the ban on music. Since then, the village returned to its original. Full of joy and happiness, the village was now protected by the Hamelin sisters and lightened by music. As for the piper, rumor had it that he was captured in a battlefield in Africa by a voodoo piper. Was he alive or dead? No one cared anymore.
At the beginning, the sisters’ new lives were nothing but homesickness and nostalgia: the smell of chicken casserole with mom’s secret mushroom source, the memory of stone fireplace where the sisters would cuddle nearby and listen to dad’s fairytales, and the jiggle and giggle at school. The sisters thought about sneaking back to the village and they actually did try a couple of times. Yet the return path stretched ahead was long and winding, and became a dreadful labyrinth whenever piper blew his pipe. Every escape so far had ended with unwilling footsteps back to where they started.
After the disappearance of these ninety-three kids, the mayor decided to ban all the music, blaming music would remind villagers the sorrow of their loss. Nevertheless, everyone knew real reason behind mayor’s fear of music. Music reminded and shamed him of his greediness which angered the piper, and his incompetence to rescue the children. Since then, not only the children’s lives had gone, but also the spirit of the village and heart of the adults, slowly and gradually evaporated like mist.
Twenty years went by. Sonya and Sophia had grown into two wise and kind-hearted young ladies. They were gifted in music and very good at pipes. But their real talent was singing. If piper’s pipe was hypnotic, Hamelin sisters’ singing was healing and forgiving. Their voice revitalized the dying upstream salmons, restored the blossom of the wilted gardens and refreshed the stale rivers. Slowly but miraculously, Sonya regained the strength to walk while Sophia recovered her eyesight.
The piper himself was getting famous. He was hired by the world power to fight or hypnotize enemies in Far East, Persian and Goguryeo ..etc. He would be gone for days, sometimes weeks, occasionally months. One day, piper set off for another mission. The Hamelin sisters felt it was the time to return. Birds and animals, attracted by the sisters’ singing along their way, acted as the navigator during the day and guardian during the night. Seven days and nights after, the sisters were back to their village.
There was not a happy soul in sight. Indeed, the whole village was overwhelmed by depression, moan, and a smell of sickness. A passerby told the sisters better to leave soon as the village was attacked by a mysterious rampant disease called SARS, which had killed families, infected hundreds and put thousands into quarantine. The sisters approached the mayor and claimed that they could help. The mayor frowned and hesitated at first, recalling what had happened twenty years ago. Seeing the village ravaged by the disease, he had no choice but let them try.
The sisters started singing to the dying patients, hospitals after hospitals, home after home. Their singing was enchanting, soothing and rejuvenating. It penetrated piles of depleted and gangling bodies. Slowly and miraculously, each of the patients was then able to sit up, then stand and walk with their full energy again. Families and friends rejoiced. The whole village celebrated. The mayor learnt the lesson and handed the sisters a heavy bag of golden schilling. The sisters refused and started to sing again.
We were the Hamelin sisters - part of the ninety-three
Our misfortunate gained piper’s pity and set us free
Money or power we don’t need, but only the one thing you fear
Music fills the body with peace, the mind with creativity,The heart with love, the soul with complete union.
The mayor agreed to lift up the ban on music. Since then, the village returned to its original. Full of joy and happiness, the village was now protected by the Hamelin sisters and lightened by music. As for the piper, rumor had it that he was captured in a battlefield in Africa by a voodoo piper. Was he alive or dead? No one cared anymore.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
A Wall of Light
Israel, to me, is both a mysterious and intriguing place – so rich in culture, history, and religion yet all we have seen and heard from the media about this country are unfortunately and predominately violence and tragedies.
A Wall of Light, a finalist for the Giller Prize, is the third of the trilogy written by Eveet Ravel. It is the story of 3 emerging characters at 3 different periods – Anna, an actor who fled the oppressive Russia to start a new life in Israel during the 40s, embrace the new challenges and the freedom she finally had; Sonya, her daughter who had undergone two life-threatening events and had emerged into a deaf and detached University Professor; and Noah, Sonya’s nephew who was born in this country but had to leave for Berlin to escape the political and sexual identity struggle
With the interweaving of Sonya’s adventure of “kissing a student, pursuing a lover, finder her father and leaving her brother”, Anna’s letters to her lover who was left behind in Russia, and Noah’s diary entries during his childhood and teenage, Ravel presented us a contemporary insider view of the country which is “capable of producing intelligent babies but manages to turn them into morons, gradually, bit by bit, until at fifty they are nearly brain-dead”, and yet with personal and emotion touch.
A Wall of Light is not too heavy or gloomy as you will imagine book about the Arab-Israeli politics. The language is beautifully done and crafted a very vivid scenery and characters. I checked the author’s site and was surprised to find the author rewrite one of her earlier book “Look for me” and actually post the new ending of the book on her website. It showed some seriousness and search for quality about her own right. I might read more of her books in the future.
A Wall of Light, a finalist for the Giller Prize, is the third of the trilogy written by Eveet Ravel. It is the story of 3 emerging characters at 3 different periods – Anna, an actor who fled the oppressive Russia to start a new life in Israel during the 40s, embrace the new challenges and the freedom she finally had; Sonya, her daughter who had undergone two life-threatening events and had emerged into a deaf and detached University Professor; and Noah, Sonya’s nephew who was born in this country but had to leave for Berlin to escape the political and sexual identity struggle
With the interweaving of Sonya’s adventure of “kissing a student, pursuing a lover, finder her father and leaving her brother”, Anna’s letters to her lover who was left behind in Russia, and Noah’s diary entries during his childhood and teenage, Ravel presented us a contemporary insider view of the country which is “capable of producing intelligent babies but manages to turn them into morons, gradually, bit by bit, until at fifty they are nearly brain-dead”, and yet with personal and emotion touch.
A Wall of Light is not too heavy or gloomy as you will imagine book about the Arab-Israeli politics. The language is beautifully done and crafted a very vivid scenery and characters. I checked the author’s site and was surprised to find the author rewrite one of her earlier book “Look for me” and actually post the new ending of the book on her website. It showed some seriousness and search for quality about her own right. I might read more of her books in the future.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Happily - Ever - After
You sure have read that – a beautiful sweet girl, snow white, princess, Cinderella, whoever, bullied by a witch, stepmother, wicked queen, but eventually met the prince or the king and they lived happily ever after.
Have you ever wondered why fairytales are always the same? Have you ever discouraged by the stereotyped female roles in these stories? Have you ever felt frustrated when you grew up and learnt that the real world worked exactly the opposite ways? Sometimes I do.
I started to read Anne Sexton’s Transformation, a revelation of contemporary fairytales. Through poetry, Anne renovated fairy tales as told by the Brothers Grimm by adding her own life experiences and view of contemporary culture, hammering away until she built an entirely new art form. Many of the details are real life and satiric, such as Cinderella and the prince…. Never bothered by diapers or dust, never arguing over the timing of an egg, never getting a middle-aged spread.
There are many other modified fairytales like Black as Night (retold of snowwhite), or the Wicked. This week, we are going to pick a fairytale and rewrite it too. Will see how far my creativity can go.
Have you ever wondered why fairytales are always the same? Have you ever discouraged by the stereotyped female roles in these stories? Have you ever felt frustrated when you grew up and learnt that the real world worked exactly the opposite ways? Sometimes I do.
I started to read Anne Sexton’s Transformation, a revelation of contemporary fairytales. Through poetry, Anne renovated fairy tales as told by the Brothers Grimm by adding her own life experiences and view of contemporary culture, hammering away until she built an entirely new art form. Many of the details are real life and satiric, such as Cinderella and the prince…. Never bothered by diapers or dust, never arguing over the timing of an egg, never getting a middle-aged spread.
There are many other modified fairytales like Black as Night (retold of snowwhite), or the Wicked. This week, we are going to pick a fairytale and rewrite it too. Will see how far my creativity can go.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Critique
Critique workshop is tough, having your “baby” being exposed to the external world, being commented, being liked and being disliked, especially you think you have done a marvelous job! But, it’s also poignant necessity of the path to improvement. I had my “Creative Writing 2 – Dialog” being commented and criticized by 10 other students – illogical dialogs, too many adverbs and adjectives, confusing sentences, using “dream” to weave into the story is lazy….etc just to name a few. It was definitely hard to take at first. But these are the most useful things I have ever learnt. I know there will be some head-scratching moments this week when I have to revise my story, given all these blunt, sophisticated and sometimes conflicting comments. Yet I will be better next time!
Friday, October 13, 2006
Legs change perspectives
It’s like mixing cocktail – 2 cup of Epsom salt, 1 cup of rubbing alcohol into the hot tub water. Left leg takes a sip for the right temperature before the whole of self immerse into it. This has been my morning and night ritual since someone told me that it might be useful to my legs’ problem. Yes, they had been on strike for almost a year. They were fast and decisive, leaving footsteps in more than 30 countries; they were the tough and daring, launching many adventures though I am never an athletic type.
Now they are heavy, slow and dragging. I have yielded quite a lot indeed, such as granting them the vacation they have been longing for years, alleviating their burden by wearing high-heel shoes no more, pampering them with massage and greeting them with many professionals (the PT, acupuncturist, and chiropractor et al).
How do I feel? Sometimes, it really sucks like vacuum cleaner. But I also learnt something. I learnt to be patient, when I become the slowest in the room; I learnt to appreciate the “handicapped-friendly” environment that a country like Canada offers; I learnt to understand every resource has a limit, including our body and energy.
Now they are heavy, slow and dragging. I have yielded quite a lot indeed, such as granting them the vacation they have been longing for years, alleviating their burden by wearing high-heel shoes no more, pampering them with massage and greeting them with many professionals (the PT, acupuncturist, and chiropractor et al).
How do I feel? Sometimes, it really sucks like vacuum cleaner. But I also learnt something. I learnt to be patient, when I become the slowest in the room; I learnt to appreciate the “handicapped-friendly” environment that a country like Canada offers; I learnt to understand every resource has a limit, including our body and energy.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Popular Mechanics Ending Re-Write
In this exercise, we were asked to alter the ending of a short story - Popular Mechanics by Raymond Carver in his book Sudden Fiction.
The story is about a couple fighting over the baby when husband planned to pack and leave the family. They started with arguemnt, then each grapped the hand, or the body of the poor littly boy. The original ending hinted a tradegy ending when neither of them let go the fragile body of the little boy.
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But he would not let go. He felt the baby slipping out of his hands and he pulled back very hard. The baby was howling and trembling.
See what you did to the baby! Give it back to me. After all, it’s really mine, not yours, not yours, she contemptuously uttered. Confused at first, then vexed, confound and devastated, he let go of the baby and collapsed onto the floor.
I am not his dad, I am not his dad…I am not….., he murmured.
Running out from the kitchen, she held her baby close to her face, just to make sure the little thing was still breathing. She was still astounded by what she just said. She never planned to tell him this. But it seemed to work.
Now what? Call 911? There was no violence, at least not yet. Go to her mom’s place? It was a two-hour drive and it’s already late, but could be an option. Knocked on neighbor’s door to get some help? She didn’t know any of them. What about just go to a nearby inn? She turned around, planning to go upstairs to get some cash, only to see her husband holding chopping knife pointed towards her.
Please, don’t do that! She begged. Nonchalant as he was, he waved his arm up and all she could see was the reflection of her face on the sharp knife.
NOOOOO, the mother and son screamed hysterically, a deeply frightened sound that disturbed the silence of the snowy night.
What’s wrong, sweetie? His hand on her forehead, he gently comforted his terrified wife and wiped the sweat off from her face.
Nothin’…….nothin’… just a nightmare, she tried to sound calm and natural enough – to her own ears, at least.
What is it about?
I forget…..I don’t know. She paused. I don’t know. Well, something about the snow. She turned her face, stood up and walked towards the baby bed to avoid the eye contacts.
How could she forget? It was the 10th time she had this nightmare since the birth of the baby 6 months ago and it got more and more violent each time. Postpartum depression or a sense of guilt, the irrevocable secret had been burdening her physically, psychologically and psychiatrically.
I should tell him the truth. She could not remember how many times she struggled, out of conscience or selfishness.
The baby boy was sleeping peacefully. She touched his little face and ran through his head, letting the soft hair rested on the finger which still circled by the wedding band since a decade ago.
Walking back to her husband, she decided, once more, she would have to endure those nightmares and guilty feelings, again and again, maybe forever.
The story is about a couple fighting over the baby when husband planned to pack and leave the family. They started with arguemnt, then each grapped the hand, or the body of the poor littly boy. The original ending hinted a tradegy ending when neither of them let go the fragile body of the little boy.
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But he would not let go. He felt the baby slipping out of his hands and he pulled back very hard. The baby was howling and trembling.
See what you did to the baby! Give it back to me. After all, it’s really mine, not yours, not yours, she contemptuously uttered. Confused at first, then vexed, confound and devastated, he let go of the baby and collapsed onto the floor.
I am not his dad, I am not his dad…I am not….., he murmured.
Running out from the kitchen, she held her baby close to her face, just to make sure the little thing was still breathing. She was still astounded by what she just said. She never planned to tell him this. But it seemed to work.
Now what? Call 911? There was no violence, at least not yet. Go to her mom’s place? It was a two-hour drive and it’s already late, but could be an option. Knocked on neighbor’s door to get some help? She didn’t know any of them. What about just go to a nearby inn? She turned around, planning to go upstairs to get some cash, only to see her husband holding chopping knife pointed towards her.
Please, don’t do that! She begged. Nonchalant as he was, he waved his arm up and all she could see was the reflection of her face on the sharp knife.
NOOOOO, the mother and son screamed hysterically, a deeply frightened sound that disturbed the silence of the snowy night.
What’s wrong, sweetie? His hand on her forehead, he gently comforted his terrified wife and wiped the sweat off from her face.
Nothin’…….nothin’… just a nightmare, she tried to sound calm and natural enough – to her own ears, at least.
What is it about?
I forget…..I don’t know. She paused. I don’t know. Well, something about the snow. She turned her face, stood up and walked towards the baby bed to avoid the eye contacts.
How could she forget? It was the 10th time she had this nightmare since the birth of the baby 6 months ago and it got more and more violent each time. Postpartum depression or a sense of guilt, the irrevocable secret had been burdening her physically, psychologically and psychiatrically.
I should tell him the truth. She could not remember how many times she struggled, out of conscience or selfishness.
The baby boy was sleeping peacefully. She touched his little face and ran through his head, letting the soft hair rested on the finger which still circled by the wedding band since a decade ago.
Walking back to her husband, she decided, once more, she would have to endure those nightmares and guilty feelings, again and again, maybe forever.
Stephen King - On Writing
I have asked around for recommendations of good writing books and many suggested On Writing as one of the best. King himself noted on the Foreword that “most books about writing are filled with bullshit” and he would try to keep his short. In fewer than 300 pages, King just did that, and did it beautifully. Earnestly, directly, and precisely, King delineated his path to a writer and his childhood in Part I - C.V.; presented us the key skills for good writing, with lots of examples, good and bad in Part II, Toolbox; and illustrated what made a good writer to better writer by addressing common writing topics such as writing genre, techniques of narration, description, dialogue, plot, character development and theme…etc.
It is a quick yet insightful read. King really had done what he preached – omit needless words. There are a couple of other “commandments” or thoughts which I find tremendously useful or refreshing: -
· If you don’t have the time to read, you don’t have the time or the tools to write.
· The road to hell is paved with adverbs, and I will shout if from the rooftops.
· Stories are found things, like fossils in the ground. Stories are relics, part of an undiscovered pre-existing world.
· Description begins in the writer’s imagination, but should finish in the reader’s.
· Starting with the questions and thematic concerns is a recipe for bad fiction. Good fiction always begins with story and progresses toe theme
· Writing fiction is like crossing the Atlantic Ocean in a bathtub (plenty of opportunity for self-doubt.) (So, King’s advice is to take story through at least two drafts – one with the study door closed and the one you do with it open)
· Life isn’t a support-system for art. It’s the other way around.
Friday, October 06, 2006
70th Day in a new place!
1998 New York
Trying hard to squeeze forward, we managed to see those 15-feet huge balloons, Mickey, Donald duck, Charlie brown…etc. I celebrated my first ever thanksgiving alongside with thousand others at the Macy Parade. Strolled along 48th Street and picked up a cold $10 thanksgiving lunch. I wondered why on earth people like to eat turkey, which I later knew and experienced a better taste one.
2000 Hong Kong
9pm, last day of the year of 1999: Back from a trip to Korea and craving for a deep soak in the tub, I found my own Y2K problem – the whole apartment was flooded with 1.5 inch of water. Long vacation means no one at work. I spent the next 5 hours draining water out and laying newspaper on the floor, with new year firework and car horns being the backdrop.
2001 Beijing
A typical Saturday started with an hour visit to the gym, followed by a dim sum lunch, which might have wiped out all the hard works. A random stroll in GuoMou (China Trade Shopping center) to check out the new arrival at H&M, stopped by Starbucks to pick up a cappuccino. Late for a facial appointment. Never mind. Timeliness is not that important in this city. Going back home with a $1.2 taxi reminded me even with all the luxurious indulgences, I was still in Beijing, a city where quality services are scare. “Sex and the city” was shown on HBO, my typical Saturday late night ritual. The next channel just announced China’s winning of Olympics 2008. I was proud, excited, and looked forward to the event. Only that who will know where I will be in 2008.
2006 Toronto
A glimpse through the window already gave me the hint that fall has silently arrived. Early morning joggers wrapped themselves in long-sleeve sweater while other passenger put on their new fall fashion – long wool jacket and leather boots. An afternoon walk was both refreshing and relaxing, with the caress of the breeze and the sound of leaves rustling. Bedford road was carpeted with a variety of fall leaves, pale yellow, orange brown and burgundy red. It reminded me a very famous restaurant in Beijing, "Green Tea House", which once collected and lay fall leaves on the floor to welcome the guests. It was also on the mid-autumn festival. Someone ever told me that the older you are, the larger the moon you would see. Tonight, I indeed saw a fuller and larger moon than all of those I had seen before. It could be my age, or, I prefer to think, I now know better to appreciate a moon
Trying hard to squeeze forward, we managed to see those 15-feet huge balloons, Mickey, Donald duck, Charlie brown…etc. I celebrated my first ever thanksgiving alongside with thousand others at the Macy Parade. Strolled along 48th Street and picked up a cold $10 thanksgiving lunch. I wondered why on earth people like to eat turkey, which I later knew and experienced a better taste one.
2000 Hong Kong
9pm, last day of the year of 1999: Back from a trip to Korea and craving for a deep soak in the tub, I found my own Y2K problem – the whole apartment was flooded with 1.5 inch of water. Long vacation means no one at work. I spent the next 5 hours draining water out and laying newspaper on the floor, with new year firework and car horns being the backdrop.
2001 Beijing
A typical Saturday started with an hour visit to the gym, followed by a dim sum lunch, which might have wiped out all the hard works. A random stroll in GuoMou (China Trade Shopping center) to check out the new arrival at H&M, stopped by Starbucks to pick up a cappuccino. Late for a facial appointment. Never mind. Timeliness is not that important in this city. Going back home with a $1.2 taxi reminded me even with all the luxurious indulgences, I was still in Beijing, a city where quality services are scare. “Sex and the city” was shown on HBO, my typical Saturday late night ritual. The next channel just announced China’s winning of Olympics 2008. I was proud, excited, and looked forward to the event. Only that who will know where I will be in 2008.
2006 Toronto
A glimpse through the window already gave me the hint that fall has silently arrived. Early morning joggers wrapped themselves in long-sleeve sweater while other passenger put on their new fall fashion – long wool jacket and leather boots. An afternoon walk was both refreshing and relaxing, with the caress of the breeze and the sound of leaves rustling. Bedford road was carpeted with a variety of fall leaves, pale yellow, orange brown and burgundy red. It reminded me a very famous restaurant in Beijing, "Green Tea House", which once collected and lay fall leaves on the floor to welcome the guests. It was also on the mid-autumn festival. Someone ever told me that the older you are, the larger the moon you would see. Tonight, I indeed saw a fuller and larger moon than all of those I had seen before. It could be my age, or, I prefer to think, I now know better to appreciate a moon
Thursday, October 05, 2006
The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat
I bought this book under my dad's recommendation 10 years ago. It traveled with me around the world from Hong Kong to Beijing, San Francisco, Seattle and now Toronto. Maybe the cover never appeals to me, I never read through the first 5 pages until today.
This is a book with strange tales, in fact real human stories of patients who suffer different kinds of neurological problems, such as a man who saw his wife as a hat, a disembodied lady who cannot feel her body unless staring the parts with her eyes, another woman who can only see or perceive the right side of things. These are patients who have perfect visual sense, yet different kinds of neurological syndrome that altered perceptions. Neurologist, Oliver Sacks has done a fascinating work in depicting the cases at a highly scholarlistic way with much medical details and references. At the same time, Sacks has been able to explain complicated concept in layman terms and with compassion. His stories touched the general reader with his genuine appreciation in human being, connecting science, real life and his own personal feeling. Whether you have serious interests in brain and mind, this book is both informational and entertaining.
Dressing Up for the Carnival style - Character writing
For the past 10+ years, I have used and read English primarily in business settings. Preciseness, bullet point, directness become the sole focus. Gradually, I found my creativity has been deprived of showing up ever in my writing. I started taking this creative writing through reading class from UoT and hopefully my other side of brain will get rejunvenated.
This exercise is about writing some imaginery characters who undergone some forms of transformation of mind, of state, or of body, after studying the Dressing Up for the Carnival by Carol Shields
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All over town people are putting on their costumes.
John ducked through the backdoor of Chef Wang so that his boss wouldn’t spot him. He always forgot how narrow and damp the kitchen was and his clumsy shoulders hit one of the piles of dishes. “You are late again and you broke 2 plates! I will deduct it from your salary! Anyway, go work now.” John navigated slowly into the dinning area. He never likes this job, a waiter at this shabby Chinese restaurant. But, what else can he do, a new immigrant with little English and only junior high school education. Plus, the hours are perfect, 7pm to midnight. His strategy tonight was “Camouflage”, a tactics from “The Escapist”, the only thing he ever read. Standing behind a column and listlessly watching TV, John indeed successfully avoided most customers and work.
Eleven forty-five, he sneaked through the kitchen again and dashed towards his home. His day now began and his real work started when his pushed the start button of 5-year-old Acer computer. He logged in as “Genghis Khan”, a name he has been using for the past decade. He was 10 minutes early. He started to review his kingdom. 100 more citizens joined his kin, good! Agriculture productivity has been improving, great! Another kin is starting a war with his kingdom in 20 minutes. That is not good. He quickly toggled to the section of Military Power Comparison. He had 1000 more soldiers but 50 fewer tanks and submarines. In a second, he decisively put $20 to match that gap. This was not about him, but his kingdom and his people. He could not take a chance. He then flipped through “The Escapist” for the right strategy: Britzkrieg, Carpet Booming, and then Tank Desant. All set! His mind was clear, his attack plan was organized and his troop was in shape. Then the following 30 minutes was a non-stop fight. John manipulated the troop with his fingers dancing through the keyboard, and propelled the tanks with his thumps on the fly. His started to feel sore on the wrists and fingers, yet also adrenergic.
Finally, he won, as he did in every single war. It was a lot of hard work to be the best warrior, but worth it. His people were saved; his throne was upheld and glory was maintained. John went to sleep satisfactorily to get ready for yet another challenge.
Tiffany got up and started to get ready for her first date with this guy offered by Match.com. Saturday brunch for first date was always good, more casual and more exit options. Tiffany has a huge selection of clothes from all the brand names, Gucci, LV, Armani… The problem was, they were all executive suits, nothing look like an artist would wear. Never mind. There’s still time, she could buy one.
Yes, Tiffany was going to be an artist for this first date; at least that was what her profile said on Match.com. She was a Merger and Acquisition Lawyer for a while but this never got her any response. She used to appreciate art and enjoyed painting when she was young. She justified that it wouldn’t be too much a lie to claim herself an artist. She was the first artist profiled in this city on Match.com, which explained why she got a quick response after changing her profile from lawyer yesterday. Tiffany was always the first. The first in her family to get into university; first honor student in the law school; and the first female partner at her firm. Yet she was the last one among her gal friends to remain single. She was originally skeptical about this type of online dating. But, after hearing several friends got married to people they knew through these sites and working on a couple of acquisition transactions related to online dating, she started to believe it herself. Then she practiced her smile, her most faithful disguise. But it would not be the modest type of smile when she was announced partner at her firm; nor the pathetic type when her competing colleague lost a transaction; nor a sweet smile when her client had a new born baby. Today it would be the radiant and passionate beam that would take her across renaissance, neoclassicism, impressionism and surrealism.
This exercise is about writing some imaginery characters who undergone some forms of transformation of mind, of state, or of body, after studying the Dressing Up for the Carnival by Carol Shields
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All over town people are putting on their costumes.
John ducked through the backdoor of Chef Wang so that his boss wouldn’t spot him. He always forgot how narrow and damp the kitchen was and his clumsy shoulders hit one of the piles of dishes. “You are late again and you broke 2 plates! I will deduct it from your salary! Anyway, go work now.” John navigated slowly into the dinning area. He never likes this job, a waiter at this shabby Chinese restaurant. But, what else can he do, a new immigrant with little English and only junior high school education. Plus, the hours are perfect, 7pm to midnight. His strategy tonight was “Camouflage”, a tactics from “The Escapist”, the only thing he ever read. Standing behind a column and listlessly watching TV, John indeed successfully avoided most customers and work.
Eleven forty-five, he sneaked through the kitchen again and dashed towards his home. His day now began and his real work started when his pushed the start button of 5-year-old Acer computer. He logged in as “Genghis Khan”, a name he has been using for the past decade. He was 10 minutes early. He started to review his kingdom. 100 more citizens joined his kin, good! Agriculture productivity has been improving, great! Another kin is starting a war with his kingdom in 20 minutes. That is not good. He quickly toggled to the section of Military Power Comparison. He had 1000 more soldiers but 50 fewer tanks and submarines. In a second, he decisively put $20 to match that gap. This was not about him, but his kingdom and his people. He could not take a chance. He then flipped through “The Escapist” for the right strategy: Britzkrieg, Carpet Booming, and then Tank Desant. All set! His mind was clear, his attack plan was organized and his troop was in shape. Then the following 30 minutes was a non-stop fight. John manipulated the troop with his fingers dancing through the keyboard, and propelled the tanks with his thumps on the fly. His started to feel sore on the wrists and fingers, yet also adrenergic.
Finally, he won, as he did in every single war. It was a lot of hard work to be the best warrior, but worth it. His people were saved; his throne was upheld and glory was maintained. John went to sleep satisfactorily to get ready for yet another challenge.
Tiffany got up and started to get ready for her first date with this guy offered by Match.com. Saturday brunch for first date was always good, more casual and more exit options. Tiffany has a huge selection of clothes from all the brand names, Gucci, LV, Armani… The problem was, they were all executive suits, nothing look like an artist would wear. Never mind. There’s still time, she could buy one.
Yes, Tiffany was going to be an artist for this first date; at least that was what her profile said on Match.com. She was a Merger and Acquisition Lawyer for a while but this never got her any response. She used to appreciate art and enjoyed painting when she was young. She justified that it wouldn’t be too much a lie to claim herself an artist. She was the first artist profiled in this city on Match.com, which explained why she got a quick response after changing her profile from lawyer yesterday. Tiffany was always the first. The first in her family to get into university; first honor student in the law school; and the first female partner at her firm. Yet she was the last one among her gal friends to remain single. She was originally skeptical about this type of online dating. But, after hearing several friends got married to people they knew through these sites and working on a couple of acquisition transactions related to online dating, she started to believe it herself. Then she practiced her smile, her most faithful disguise. But it would not be the modest type of smile when she was announced partner at her firm; nor the pathetic type when her competing colleague lost a transaction; nor a sweet smile when her client had a new born baby. Today it would be the radiant and passionate beam that would take her across renaissance, neoclassicism, impressionism and surrealism.
I Start to Blog!
I didn't understand why people blog. I am curious. Think about it, why will people read about thoughts from people they never met? For me, writing is a new challenge but I also find it therapeutic and worth a try.In fact, a recent paper published by health care researcher Joshua Smyth and colleagues demonstrated that writing really is good for both your physical and mental health.
As regard to what I am going to write, I do not have a clear theme yet. Will wait for itself to flow and take shape!
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