In 2006, I learnt to

Go with the flow, dive into UNCERTAINTIES
Have more time, more understandings, and more patience WITH OTHERS.
Similarly, have more time, more understandings, and more patience WITH MYSELF.



I remember a quote from Doris Lessing, a British Novelist
“That what Learning is all about! You suddenly learnt something you have known for your whole life, but in a different way.”

PD James

I recently indulge myself into PD James. My dad has been recommending this writer to me for a long time. As an excuse, I only “had” time to read financial books, but not fiction.

PD James, a renowned writer in crime story genre, is certainly not the most prolific writer. But among the 19 books she has written, many were filmed as movies or TV series, as well as earning distinguished prizes.

Her experiences in both Police and Criminal Law departments allow her to pepper stories with believable details and sensible touch.

James only started writing in her late thirties.

Nostalgia of Ganganagar

A city in Chitwan, hundred fifty miles south of Kathmandu,
Lived those who constantly fight against blaze and downpour.
Monsoon washes away homes, living stocks and loved ones.
But you have to go on, Ke Gar Ne!

Unpredictable rhinos appear in the middle of field,
Chasing farmers and playing hide and seek.
Lions’ paws lingering and being relentless.
But you have to survive, Ke Gar Ne!

Wake up at five, have a Del Bat.
Work until my hands shiver, eat another Del Bat.
Hashish - Have A Smoke Happily In Snowy Himalayan!
For life is still great, Ke Gar Ne!


* Ke Gar Ne = "What else you can do" in Nepali

Ganganagar is the village I volunteered in 2003 with INFO Nepal, a non-profit organization.

Wedding Gift

We got them back from the Bay Registry – floor lamp, vases, flutes, glassware, bed sheets, games…. Unwrapping the gift one by one, we envisioned how these will fit into our home, our life, our new venture. Reading the words from our families and friends, we recalled the fond memories from the wedding.

We spent quite a bit time preparing the event, longer than what we thought, but shorter than many couples I know. It’s a special day that you become the center of the world, and everyone has to notice you.

But it’s just a start of the life-long journey!

What's after my writing class

We just finished the class “Creative Writing through Reading” at UoT. As I told my classmates, this was not the first writing class I took. But this was the first one I really did my homework every time. Peer pressure works well this case. Indeed, I learnt so much from all my classmates – all much disciplined, serious writers with excellent quality of works.

We were talking about forming a writing club to keep us writing.
Several of my classmates are on their path to novel and publishing. For me, I do have dream of doing it one day, hopefully soon!

Writing Challenges I wish to take on

I found these two on the web:
Tag You’re It, a place where stories were born in a collaboratively. It’s like the improvisation where one person starts the idea of the story and others contribute to develop the story. No one can predict how it grows and how it ends.

NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month. Participants start writing on November 1 with the goal to finish 175 pages of novel by midnight, November 30. 50,000 words in 30 days means 1667 words a day. Compared with my 100 words a day (with gaps), I need to ratchet up my efforts!

First Christmas in Canada

We bought my first X’mas tree the other day – small, Balsam Fir and now hanged with various ornaments and lights, circulated with colorful gifts. I thought there were only two types of Christmas trees – the real and the fake. Fact is there are at least ten types, lean versus sprawling, soft needles versus hard.

Christmas in Hong Kong is much different from here. There were parties, Lan Kwai Fong, manjong, karaoke, and large scale of Christmas lightings in Tsim Sha Tsui and Central areas. No place can be compared with Hong Kong in that regard.

Canada offers something different.

Duster

I remember you.
A bamboo stick disguised under of brown-red feather.
Placed on top of the cupboard like a relentless god.
A punishment for a small lie, misbehavior or unsatisfactory report.
You gave me pain, when mom or dad smacked you hard on my delicate skin.
You gave me shame, when classmates laughed at the red-whitish marks you left.

I remember you.
My brother and I annihilated.
We plucked your feathers one by one.
We snapped your body in half.
A tyranny overthrown; a revenge taken; a cruelty destroyed.
Your brother came the next day, more colorful feathers, more powerful stick.

I remember you.
Gradually you did your job, you have disappeared;
You have no role in such family –
Aging parents, grownup kids thousands miles away.
You have no spot in my parents’ mind –
Now occupied with travel plans, health problems and the wait for grandkids.

Now I know that.
I am at my mother’s age.
Adulthood hasn’t become easier with wisdom.
Responsibilities don’t necessarily go with recognitions and rewards.
Parenthood is an aspiration, but also a perplexing function.
The ultimate patience, unrequited efforts and unconditional love

Now I know that.
I should thank you for having developed me,
An overall decent person, I try to only lie for good reason.
Though not everything comes satisfactory, I have used all my excellence.
All the pain reminded me life is bitter when it is not sweet.
All the shame motivated me to aim high to reach.


Now I know that.
When I saw mom and dad waving to me at the airport,
Staggering with their luggage, a silhouette against the sinking sun.
Time has shown on their grey hairs and furrowed forehead.
I am no more a girl, but I still cause them trouble.
Sometimes I forget, maybe I never said, I love you mom and dad.

Discipline

Discipline is easier said than done. I am 2-3 days behind my 100-words-a-day and trying to catch up with random thoughts and cheesy book review. Well, late is better than never, cheesy writing is better than naught writing.

I remotely remember I used to be much more disciplinary - life was only composed of studying, eating and sleeping. When life gets better, it’s easy to become more relaxed. I knew someone, rich and successful, who always delay paying his credit card charges so that he could reminiscent the feeling of poverty when he got the calls from the banks. Irony!

Neverwhere subway adventure

Just finished Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman, a fantasy thriller. The main character, Richard Mayhew, was punished by being a good Samarian. He saved a girl from the assassins, who killed her whole family. Strangely, Richard then ceased to exist in the world of London Above. To save his life, he had to join the girl to find out their destiny in the darkest and most dangerous par of the city, London Below.

If there is a story about the subway in Hong Kong, could it be a revolution of Robots who have been collecting profile of human through Octopus card?

Laugh Resort full of laughs

I went to the Laugh Resort to watch the comedy show. Laugh Resort prides itself “Shoot from the hip without aiming below the below the belt.” The show was super hilarious. I started to realize how much Toronto offers – breeding ground of many talented comedians, epicenter of musical and drama event including one of the world’s largest film festival, and top North America destination for Hong Kong singers to hold their overseas shows.

The other day, I heard my classmate complaining that Toronto lacks a unique character like New York has. As a minority, I certainly prefer it this way more than the "melting pot" USA.

Poem in Anger

Emotionless. He looks like those replicas in Madam Tuso.
Restless. He wrestles and hassles like a mouse in cage.
Time. Meaningless if there is no sense of importance and urgency.
Help. No one hear him. No one see him. Wonder himself, insignificant or unseen.
World. His own world. Isolated. Surreal. Dreamy. Uncertainties.
Anger. People think he is lucky. Only he knows the flames breath out and in.
His song. Nowhere man, doesn’t know what he is doing.
His plan for nobody. His point of view doesn’t exist.
Joy and peace. Maybe the early spring next year will give a hint.

Reminiscene of Beijing Winter

Today’s weather is quite strange. A mysterious haze crept from the lake, swallowing the CN Tower and diluting the sunny blaze. The haze reminded me of Beijing. But it was different. That was the smog from burning coal in some part of the town, where electricity was still a luxury. That was also the steam coming from the on-street hawkers selling dumplings, pancake, potatoes and stewed lamb. Walking along San Li Tuan (entertainment district), you will bump into several of these hawkers, who fight with DVD sellers to get your business. This is the hustle and bustle side of Beijing.

Second City Improvisation

Second week into this improvisation class by Second City. Quite daunted at first by some of my classmates – child actor, veteran comedy, daily show host… I was not funny even in my mother tongue, let alone a second language.

The instructor started the class with a comforting note: everyone can be funny, it’s about team work, not an individual show. And for the first two days of the classes, we didn’t need to talk, we just focus on actions. Now, whether I will end up doing anything in comedy, I don’t know. But I am sure I enjoy the class!

Hamlet

Hamlet was the Denmark prince who revenged for the murder of his King father, a tragedy by Shakespeare. You may criticize that Hamlet was too indecisive, struggling between taking actions and thinking to take actions. In fact, many of us are procrastinators ourselves, waiting for higher salary to do charity, waiting for a more promising job to do a better dad, waiting for that can’t-miss opportunity to shine our best…

What about the King, the spirit which had haunted and moved Hamlet to revenge. Is he a good spirit fighting for fairness, or an evil one messing up Hamlet’s life?

Javier Oreguela

A short fiction using the concept of misperception.
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“This’s getting freakin’ annoying!” Louis was shocked by the slip of tongue. Months of working in this hell, sonofabitch investment bank had exploded him, he thought. Javier, Javier, Javier, such a moron, bluff and drama king.

Say in the thanksgiving office party, Javier would impersonate Shakira, shaking his ass off and reminding everyone that he and Shakira came from the same village in Colombia. Awful! He would laugh at Louis’s Singaporean accent, a sore point. But here’s what Louis found most disgusting - Javier always started off a sentence with “When I was in Harvard, …”. Louis was sponsored by the Singaporean government to Cambridge and graduated first class. But he preferred to stay under the radar for fear of questions on how he could get away from the compulsory military training, that’s another story. Louis could only express his hatred in private. Everyone loved Javier – the secretary, managers, directors and clients. Javier was the untouchable gold, the high-flying star.

Perhaps the numerous late-nights crunching spreadsheets, gulping down caffeine mixed with red-bull, and toying with the Bloomberg machines created certain camaraderie. Louis found the better side of Javier– humorous, street-smart and smooth. He also learnt tons from Javier, how to cover ass in office, how to schmooze with the secretaries, and what’s a good pick up line ….

Last Sunday, they went out for drinks to celebrate a record-breaking 130 hours week. After some Vodka and pot, Javier half drunkenly, half seriously said,

“Mi Amigo, you know how the formula goes, white guys - yellow chicks, white chicks – black guys, black-chicks - Latino guys. Asian dudes, sorry man, that sucks! But what can you do? Stand up for yourself! Fight for what you want, si?” He grimly griped his fist and crushed the Rancheritos into crumbles, cascading into the Vodka. Louis did not disagree with it; he just didn’t realize the inequality had become so universally apparent.

Next morning, Louis came to the office fashionably on time. Walked past Javier’s desk, empty, kind of expected. Started reading emails, Louis was caught by the one marked “Important and Urgent.”

“Javier Oreguela was fired from Goodman & Company due to unsatisfactory performance.” This was impossible, Louis thought. Feeling an urge to “fight for yourself”, Louis dashed to the director’s office to do remedies.

“I have been working with Javier. I can prove he’s a great analyst!” Louis stepped back after he finished the statement, which he found ridiculous and naïve. Who he thought he was?

The director was somewhat surprised by Louis’s impetuosity. He frowned, motioned the analyst to sit, and then swiveled the laptop monitor showing Louis the CNN news. The headline read, “Gilberto Rodriguez Orejuela, once one of the world's most powerful criminals, has been extradited to the US to face drug smuggling and money-laundering charges.”

“Gilberto is Javier’s dad.”

“But Javier has nothing to do with the cartel, right?”

“In Goodman here, our clients come first. They include the US government. Louis, I know how it feels. But focus on your work. You ARE the star in this office! We all want to groom you into great success one day.”

Weary Professional

My first attempt of a poem, using first peson voice.
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What is more exhausting than a whole day work?
What is more stressful than a tight deadline project?
A professional, I used to be; now a jobless dad with two kids to feed.
I went back home with the big envelop, only to find my wife’s exciting look.
Anther baby is expected, she said, and hopefully I would soon get promoted.
The word “layoff” came to the tip of my tongue;
Yet I curbed it, and tried to smile somewhat hesitant.

Everyday I still wake up early like a professional will.
Wearing a suit, my wife will help make my tie.
I take the TTC going southbound to Bay Street,
cologne, briefcase, and Business Week.
Take out my Blackberry every minute,
pretending clients need me as advisor, who offers them much wit.
I elbow my way to get off from Union Station,
like a veteran in the corporate jungle.
Fittest survives, stepping on others’ toes and heels are just fine.

Another listless day! Wasting, struggling, whining, agonizing and pretending.
There is nothing I can do, no place I can go, no one I can share my shame.
“Outlook” no longer shows me the agenda; painful to pretend I am still a lawyer.
I sit at a table in Timothy’s, starting my day reading magazine with some intensity.
I planned my exact response if I bump into different acquaintances.
You know, the next big thing, great opportunity. Waiting for me, I can not miss.
I spend the afternoon wandering in Eaton Center, window shopping and
imagining how I could have spent the annual bonus, which I would never receive.

Squeeze into the train going back to the North. It is rush hour.
People were moving back and forth like dominos.
My shirt is wrinkled, making me more like a weary professional.
My wife would ask me about my day and my hypothetical project.
Same old, same old. It is exhausting. It is stressful.

Deal Or No Deal

“So Henry Davidson, you just rejected the bank offer of $350K. Three amounts left on the board, $1, $100 and the One Million Dollars. You have to open one more case before the next bank offer comes!” said Howie. Henry was contemplating. On the other side of the stage, there were his son Peter, his wife Suzy and his mother-in-law Sally, all condemning how stupid Henry was to reject the huge amount of money.

Henry had a choice from No. 3, 14 and 23. He gazed at the models. Suzy was like them a while ago; long while ago – No.3’s shiny cascading blonde hair and sparking eyes, No.14’s “36-24-36” and slender legs and No. 23’s mannerism and charm.

He smiled to the three angles and they smiled back. No. 3 was twirling her hair, unleashing an intense floral smell of Chanel No. 5. Her fuchsia lips seemed whispering, “hey young man, my boyfriend has gone, you wanna have a drink?” No. 14 was prepping her tiffany-blue chiffon halter and swaying towards Henry, so feminine that her hips rocked. She was inviting, “Come up to my apartment, will you? My parents are out of town.” Then No. 23 was closing her eyes like an elegant swan, waiting for Henry to lift her veil after they had both said “I do”.

“Number 14, Idiot!” Suzy’s squeak seized Henry from his delight, water mouthing moment back to reality.

Jesus Christ! What had time done to Suzy? Henry shrugged – Suzy had been blasted like a flat tire, superfluous meat over here and there, and spider vein overlaying her thighs like the Manhattan subway map. Henry found it too unbearable to reconcile Suzy’s past and present. He reoriented towards Howie and uttered, “Number 23.” Marriage must be the ultimate disguise.

The flurry sweater Henry was wearing would just prove that. He had been kicked out from the bedroom and sleeping with his dog in basement. Punishment for failing to get a paid rise and to clean the toilet up to Suzy’s standard. Henry missed playing football with Peter. The smell of grass, sweat and mud, the bonding between father and son made Henry feel like a real man. But Peter had gradually become more like Suzy, seeing Henry as a loser and staying away from him. And Sally, the mom-of-a bitch had never liked Henry. She didn’t even come to their wedding.

“Open the case!” Howie requested. Bingo! $1 was in case Number 23, meaning Henry still had a chance to win the million dollars. Banker came back with an even more appealing offer, $550K.

Henry felt luck, for the first time, was on the good side. But he also faced a predicament. Taking the offer, Suzy would welcome him back to the bedroom. Peter would show respect to me, and maybe his Sally would start to appreciate Henry as a person.

On the other hand, Henry could almost smell and feel and sense and know the one million dollars was in his chosen case. One million dollars, thirty years of his salary! He could start a new life with a premium apartment at Central Park, travel around the world with his dog, quit his miserable job, or even date a couple of models. He would live the American dream! His son would admire him. He would teach Peter how to be a man.

Howie was saying something to him but he could not make out of it. Henry took a quick glimpse across the audience. Yes, no one deserved the money more than he did.

What about divorce! Suzy and her mom would certainly beg him and he would humiliate them. But wait, there was no prenup. So Suzy could get half the million. NO NO NO. This was his hard-earned money! No one could touch it!

Henry was disconcerted by the shouts and yells of the multitude. Everyone was eyeing his case. He grasped it firmly with both arms, perplexed and dashed out from the NBC studio.

Why writing fiction is more fun

Stephen King ever mentioned “don’t think about plot too much” in his book On Writing. Instead, he preached let the characters take on their path, sometimes decide on their fate. I found it was weird. Having written a couple more assignment, I started to believe. That’s exactly what differentiates creative fiction and creative non-fiction, at least from the writer’s perspective. For creative non-fiction, you know exactly what’s going to happen, what’s the turning point, and what’s the ending. You instead focus on the angle, the voice, and the details that enhance the flow and credibility. But for creative fiction, if you characters are well-developed, you have to “listen” to them and let them gear the direction of you story. That’s also the fun part I now start to enjoy.

The Devil's Pawnbroker

This week’s assignment is using narrative portfolio to write a short biography of a creative character, modeled after the piece “The Hit Man” in Sudden Fiction

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The Devil Pawnbroker

Childhood

Strictly speaking, Lucy doesn’t have any childhood if childhood symbolizes love, sweet memories or laughter. At five, her parents were shot when the Japanese army crossed over the Manchuria, leaving her to a covetous uncle in Beijing. At twelve, uncle sells her to a landlord as the forth concubine for a hundred bucks. Displeased by Lucy’s defiance, the landlord rid her of to a whorehouse. She escapes, yet, a slim chance to survive given a far-flung famine all over China.

First encounter with Big Dee

Lucy is terribly starved. Her stomach howls as if she has swallowed the whole thunderstorm in her tiny tummy. Wait. It is indeed a thunder and the rain starts pouring over her already fragile body. Lucy is digging and scratching for anything to eat, tree skin, mushroom, dead bird or even corpse. A young gentleman shuffles and hands her a roasted chicken. Lucy gulps within minutes. The gentleman takes out more. “WoW, are you the G….” “No… no… no… I am the Devil but call me Big Dee. Be my pawnbroker, from today.” “soooooo, I can eat chicken?” “Of course,” Big Dee chuckles, “all money you can ever imagine and living forever. But there is a price. You have to trade your Love for all of these.” Without much thought, Lucy grasps hold of Big Dee like a life jacket. She knows it is a great deal, after all, love never knocked on the door throughout her miserable life.

The Business

All business is conducted at Lived Mansion, No. 99 on the Ninth Avenue. Lucy likes Big Dee’s business. It is simple: People come here for wealth, career or luck by pawning their limbs, organs, health, or souls, Big Dee’s ultimate pursuit. It is fair too, all done by freewill, choice and desire. After months of training, Lucy can manage the whole process from greeting client, discussing objective, negotiating, receiving pawnage, categorizing, shelving and record keeping.

First Client

Mr. Momoko comes to Lived Mansion for career promotion. Three kids, old parents and a huge mortgage he says. He will trade two years of his life for this. Deal. A week later, Mr. Momoko receives a promotion. He continues to climb up the corporate ladder and upgrades his house. A decade later, one of his sons joins the army, is sent to Vietnam, and is lost. Five years later, the son comes back only to find out it is too late. Dad just passed away a month ago.

Big Dee

Big Dee seldom appears at the Mansion unless for important deals involving souls or lives. To Lucy, Big Dee, her savior, is unassuming, eloquent and somewhat charming. But Big Dee also has his evil side. Lucy heard that the sparrow in the backyard was the last pawnbroker, being punished by Big Dee for misconduct, and same for the squirrel, the owl and the stone statue. .

Adulthood

Lucy convinces Big Dee to grow her to mid-twenties so that she can be more compelling, and can even do some outreach or counseling to proactively seek the lost soul. Granted.

Vacation

A typical vacation: flying to Paris for shopping, then Italy for lunch, Greece for the afternoon tea and Spain for a late dinner, slotting in a concert in London if there is time. Lucy loves facial. She doesn’t need Botox or any anti-aging formula though. The only annoyance is she has to change her dermatologist once a while, tenth time already. They are all top notch, yet life is too short for normal people.

Thunderstorm

Lucy hates thunderstorm which reminds her the dismal days. She has to roast chicken and eat it fiercely to comfort and reassure herself.

Lovers

Lucy has over thousands of lovers, and counting, from each country and generation. But she loves none of them. To her, they are just packages of organs and limbs which present possibilities for Lived Mansion. Some of them became repeated clients at the Mansion.

Baby

Lucy has longed for a baby for decades. She does not love baby, but believes baby can make her happier. One day, a middle-aged man comes to the Mansion to trade his wife’s six month old fetus for more money. Deal. Lucy looks at the fetus in the flask and thinks about taking it. But what if Big Dee discovers? How painful it will be to stuck it in my tummy? What if the baby born with defects? What if the baby doesn’t like to stay in the mansion? What if my love to this baby is unrequited? What if it dies before I die? Maybe it’s best to keep it this way. Everyday, Lucy walks by the flask, kisses the baby on the glass surface and it waves back, or so it seems.

The Lover

But there is this new friend Lucy meets in a flight across the Mediterranean Sea. He is different, from all the men she knows, and much so from Big Dee. Sipping her Moet & Chardon, Lucy peeks at her neighbor, who is looking into the sky. His refined face looks solemnly thoughtful, yet genuinely kind. She is intrigued. Then they start talking, exchange emails and visits. But, there is something missing, apparent to her, apparent to him.

The Love

Lucy has to make a very tough decision. She walks down to the cellar, stops at the last aisle, picks up the flask labeled Ms. Dahlia’s Love.

Lucy’s Death

With the flask in one hand, a jacket in the other, Lucy dashes out of the Mansion, passing the sparrow, squirrel, owl and statue, unknowingly walking into a forest. A pungent smell of rotten bodies, the thunderstorm, a downpour, a sense of déjà vu. Lucy scurries as fast as she can and suddenly she feels her head is behind her feet. Lucy is throttled by a hanging stem.

Lucy dies, dies of hunger, a hunger for love.

In one part of the world, a handsome gentleman is looking for another struggling, heartless or hopeless human being to offer help, and hope, and hiring.

In other part of the world, another gentleman is seeking for the same lost souls, to offer rescue, and redemption, and reborn.

Banana and Grandma

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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!