There are some skinny children running across the play grounds. The weeds growing through the concrete are green like the wheat fields beyond. As the children run across the grounds, the green wheats turn golden. It is the turn of a year and the beginning of another.
When the children are gone, there is a sound like wind. There is the smell of sweet roast meat. The smell is pink. Then, there is the smell of smoke from a smothered fire.
There is a man calling out to a Heidi.
There is a pair of phantom eyes. The eyes the sunlight shines through and dissolves. In the hall, there is the throne. It is a throne of gold. A heavy man sits. He has a beard. The rest of his face is in his open palms. He is troubled. He calls for Heidi. Heidi. He bellows. The name echoes through the hall. There is little of anything else.
Where is this place? Who is this man?
When she finally appears, the scene is bright. Water reflects lights. She has phantom eyes too. Eyes that see but cannot be seen. Ghost eyes. Believe. From nowhere, a cherub, with naughtiness or sin in his demeanor, giggles and hurries away.
He tells his wife or priest that he cannot forget a pair of eyes he saw in his dream. It must mean something. It did not belong to an animal. He troubled over it. He mulled over it. It is not like anything he knows. He must try to recall the eyes again. Otherwise they will fade away like all visions of dreams. This torments him, for when he recalls the eyes, they haunt him. He is unrested. He does not want to forget them. It takes a toil on him.
Heidi is quiet. He dares not to hit her. He merely cringes or frowns. Heidi whispers to him. It cannot be heard. What does she know? He will go to the temple. The gods may listen.
In the temple, there were only concrete and emeralds. He presents the vision to a goddess in the wall. Her eyes are made of dissimilar windows, and the irises are the windows outlined by curtains. It was certain. That these are far from the eyes in his dreams.
Had he just experienced an apparition from another god? He doesn't know. The gods must forgive him. He did not wish for the dream to come to him. Or at least so he must insist.
He kneels pathetically. And wails. He wanted to be polite at first. But uncontrollably he weeps and wails. Like he just lost his son. Like how he will weep and wail uncontrollably when he eventually loses his son to the war with the rivers. In the temple, there are resounding echoes of his cries.
Where is Heidi? She did not come with him. Yes. The temple is dark again. He is alone with his past. And his future. He forbade her from coming. She is pleased to be alone. But he misses her.
He lies defeated on the floor on all fours at first. When he is out of breath, he curls up to lie on his side like a child who lost a fight.
You, the observer, must remember, that the piano had not yet been derived. Accompaniment is better, but there is only silence and the noise from his movements. There is the ticking of a clock but that is all. All that is in front of you is a big bearded man, defeated in a hall of a temple of his gods, by the resounding echoes of his own cries for the impending death of his son he had not yet come to bear.
Just when he regained enough, he was immediately flooded by fear of humiliation should someone else been in the temple to hear his cries and vulnerability. After which, he was immediately embarrassed by his guilt for fearing for his reputation at such a sorrowful moment. He looked up into the eyes of his god. For mercy and relief. He cannot imagine how. He is tired now.
He pleads with the goddess and looked up into the windows with desperation. The curtains fly and flutter. It does not matter what is the colour now. The man sees through the dark abyss-like irises of the eyes. Through the gaps of the fluttering curtains he sees eternal grey horizontal bars of asylum cells. Upon closer look, the bars are made of lines of words. They are silver against a sea of darkness. He feels fear. He searches beyond the rows of letters behind of which he saw you looking down at him with pity and estrangement and whatever it is that you feel. You see his phantom eyes now as they are brimmed with fear. They are meeting yours directly. He cannot break away from your gaze.
And the curtains flutter back shut. And you close your eyes to imagine or recall the phantom eyes of the man in the temple. And you open your eyes. And there is nothing left of what you saw except in your mind you wonder who is Heidi.
(sneak)
Saturday, 9 August 2008
Thursday, 7 August 2008
想你 16
怎么从来再也没有在街上碰过你?
是不是因为我们连那一点缘份都没有了吗?
还是因为你见到我就躲了起来?
你应该是没有躲我的理由吧?
可能觉得 和我打招呼 很麻烦...
其实我也觉得 和你打招呼 是很麻烦...
就这样吧.
希望你还好. 希望你过得快乐.
是不是因为我们连那一点缘份都没有了吗?
还是因为你见到我就躲了起来?
你应该是没有躲我的理由吧?
可能觉得 和我打招呼 很麻烦...
其实我也觉得 和你打招呼 是很麻烦...
就这样吧.
希望你还好. 希望你过得快乐.
Wednesday, 6 August 2008
The Kite Flyer
When I was younger, I often wondered if the kite should be released instead of being tied to a string, if it should be free.
When I was older, I understood that without the string, the kite would be unable to fly.
I made that into a lesson about life, in many, many different ways, most of which I have long forgotten because they are tiring to remember.
Now, I just fly my kite and try not to let it fall to the ground. It may sink or dive or climb higher or not. It is in its nature. It is just a game that some people play when they want their kites to fly very high, or how some people want their kites to look very beautiful, or to spin in an interesting manner. Well, my game is simple, and probably the most not interesting game to watch. So, when I am flying my kite, I take it as my responsibility to keep it away from the ground.
Of course, it still does so occasionally. It is in the kite's nature to fall to the ground when there is the opportunity to do so. As it is in my nature to fail from time to time. Each time it happens, as it is in my nature, I will be disappointed and wonder if it is in the kite's nature to disappoint.
(sneak.)
When I was older, I understood that without the string, the kite would be unable to fly.
I made that into a lesson about life, in many, many different ways, most of which I have long forgotten because they are tiring to remember.
Now, I just fly my kite and try not to let it fall to the ground. It may sink or dive or climb higher or not. It is in its nature. It is just a game that some people play when they want their kites to fly very high, or how some people want their kites to look very beautiful, or to spin in an interesting manner. Well, my game is simple, and probably the most not interesting game to watch. So, when I am flying my kite, I take it as my responsibility to keep it away from the ground.
Of course, it still does so occasionally. It is in the kite's nature to fall to the ground when there is the opportunity to do so. As it is in my nature to fail from time to time. Each time it happens, as it is in my nature, I will be disappointed and wonder if it is in the kite's nature to disappoint.
(sneak.)
Monday, 4 August 2008
Information Management Policies of the Dystopian Future (A bad paragraphers' corner)
1. Maybe one day, there'll be so much writing and so much information that they'll pass laws to ban everything that is not concise.
2. Long sentences with no real content will be banned.
3. Conjunctions that could be better communicated by body language will be banned from spoken speech.
4&5. Emoticons must be used to communicate emotions instead of using emotive words like "frustrated" or "melancholic" or "elated". One must use a .gif to communicate the feeling of elation.
6. Also, emoticons must only be portrayed with ":" and not "=", as in, ":)" and not "=(".
7. All emoticons will be accompanied by a number, to denote the intensity of the sentiment to avoid ambiguity. The number measures upon 10. e.g., ">:( 2" may mean, "I'm quite pissed", or ">:( 10" to mean "I'm so pissing angry I'm going to piss in my pants and then his/your pants... And then threaten to kill everyone/myself."
8. Some smart asses will put ">:( 100" to try to indicate that their sentiments are so intense, that they're off the scale. They will be fined. Their abuse will cause inflation to the EM (emoticon measure) and mess up interpretations causing EM to be ambiguous like the emoticon itself.
9. In fact, they'll impose a fine for saying something ambiguous.
?. Then again, maybe they won't because governments rely too much on being ambiguous.
9. Maybe they'll impose a tax - an ambiguous tax that'll be ambiguous about what it is taxing so that governments will be ambiguously exempted!
10. Also, they will ban bad paragraphing in most public places and increase insurance requirements should one decide to allow bad paragraphing for up to 20% of the unofficial documents. That segment will be labelled "bad paragraphers' corner".
2. Long sentences with no real content will be banned.
3. Conjunctions that could be better communicated by body language will be banned from spoken speech.
4&5. Emoticons must be used to communicate emotions instead of using emotive words like "frustrated" or "melancholic" or "elated". One must use a .gif to communicate the feeling of elation.
6. Also, emoticons must only be portrayed with ":" and not "=", as in, ":)" and not "=(".
7. All emoticons will be accompanied by a number, to denote the intensity of the sentiment to avoid ambiguity. The number measures upon 10. e.g., ">:( 2" may mean, "I'm quite pissed", or ">:( 10" to mean "I'm so pissing angry I'm going to piss in my pants and then his/your pants... And then threaten to kill everyone/myself."
8. Some smart asses will put ">:( 100" to try to indicate that their sentiments are so intense, that they're off the scale. They will be fined. Their abuse will cause inflation to the EM (emoticon measure) and mess up interpretations causing EM to be ambiguous like the emoticon itself.
9. In fact, they'll impose a fine for saying something ambiguous.
?. Then again, maybe they won't because governments rely too much on being ambiguous.
9. Maybe they'll impose a tax - an ambiguous tax that'll be ambiguous about what it is taxing so that governments will be ambiguously exempted!
10. Also, they will ban bad paragraphing in most public places and increase insurance requirements should one decide to allow bad paragraphing for up to 20% of the unofficial documents. That segment will be labelled "bad paragraphers' corner".
Dear You
So, I'm me.
And you're you.
And I'm writing this thing that you are reading. – A chasm in time. A perpetual conundrum. – This must be the stuff of time machines.
Perhaps you'll forget – most probably – most definitely – you'll forget this that I'm writing that you're reading. And why shouldn't you? These are my stories to tell, and even I forget them once in a while. If you're going to remember anything at all, you're better off remembering your own stories, right?
What that takes me a day, or weeks, or years, to write, you take a few minutes to read. You know, I'm just like a secret admirer, writing you love letters, and leaving them here and hoping that you'll find them and that you'll like them and like me a little bit more.
I hope, but of course I dare not to hope too much, that one day, something exciting will happen between us. That's how I comfort myself when I am waiting in front of the computer, sometimes late into the night, looking forward to it.
I don't know what is going to happen. I don't even want to imagine. No expectations, no disappointments.
In fact, I take back the confession altogether and let's just say that I only wrote what you read for dramatic or comic effect.
I'm me, and you're you, after all.
Yours Sincerely,
Me.
And you're you.
And I'm writing this thing that you are reading. – A chasm in time. A perpetual conundrum. – This must be the stuff of time machines.
Perhaps you'll forget – most probably – most definitely – you'll forget this that I'm writing that you're reading. And why shouldn't you? These are my stories to tell, and even I forget them once in a while. If you're going to remember anything at all, you're better off remembering your own stories, right?
What that takes me a day, or weeks, or years, to write, you take a few minutes to read. You know, I'm just like a secret admirer, writing you love letters, and leaving them here and hoping that you'll find them and that you'll like them and like me a little bit more.
I hope, but of course I dare not to hope too much, that one day, something exciting will happen between us. That's how I comfort myself when I am waiting in front of the computer, sometimes late into the night, looking forward to it.
I don't know what is going to happen. I don't even want to imagine. No expectations, no disappointments.
In fact, I take back the confession altogether and let's just say that I only wrote what you read for dramatic or comic effect.
I'm me, and you're you, after all.
Yours Sincerely,
Me.
Wednesday, 30 July 2008
The False Mirror
She woke up in the morning with the remnants of last night's conversation still ringing in her head. Or were they from dreams that were left unreconciled? She took a deep breath with her eyes still closed.
She asked herself what day was it and she didn't reply immediately.
She was looking at travel ads before going to bed. She thought about going to Egypt on her own. She tried to remember if she dreamt about Egypt in her sleep. She couldn't recall before the alarm went off again.
With the alarm going off, it could not be a weekend. She sighed and sat up. A pillow fell off the other side of the bed.
She scratched her head and quickly wished she would not have bad hair today. Her nails were long again. If she washed her face enough times, she would have to trim her nails. Her stomach made a weird sound. She supposed she was hungry.
She felt an ache in her right thigh and another one in her left ankle.
There was a lump growing out near her spine at her back. She's been putting off going to the doctor's about it, because she could not remember if she always had a thing growing there since she was little. She was lazy and it did not bother her enough. It was smaller than her thumb. That was how she would describe it to the doctor. A lump that was smaller than her thumb. She was proud of herself for thinking of that in the morning. She contorted her arm to feel for the lump. It was in between her shoulder blades. Perhaps it was more like a bump. A lump like a bump that was smaller than her thumb. That would be stretching it a little. She stretched the skin on the bump, and thought it was too early in the morning to be playing with words.
She took off her clothes and switched on the shower. She liked the feeling of the water over her skin. She soaped herself. She felt a small sharp pain. It was the first time the lump on her back hurt. She rinsed the area more carefully and wondered if there was an open wound. She did not feel any just now, but it had hurt like soap over an open wound.
She decided that she would at least look at it in the mirror before she worry. She couldn't get a good look.
She strutted naked across the room to get her compact powder. There was a mirror in there she could use. So she held up the mirror from her used compact close to the lump to reflect it in the bathroom mirror. Her hands were wet. It was awkward. The powder was dampened.
There was a lump growing on her back. On the lump, the thin fold of skin made a horizontal slit across it. It did not look like a wound and she gently pushed the skin fold apart with two fingers and it hurt. So, she used her forefinger and her thumb to pull down the lower side of the slit to be clear. She was shocked at what she saw.
There was an eye beneath it.
She dropped her arms and contorted posture. She exchanged a confirmatory, reassuring glance with herself in the mirror. Then she mumbled, “what the fuck” and recomposed herself again to take a better look.
She had an eye growing out of her back, and it looked blood shot. She thought for a while and know she could not see what the third eye saw, and could not remember reading about anything like this. Except for those foetus in foetu people who are born with a conjoined twin inside themselves. They had a face or arms or legs sticking out of their body. It was beside the point. She only had an eye. Other than this morning, the growth did not bother her. Does it warrant going to the doctor now?
With genuine gladness, she announced to herself, “okay. This makes enough reason to not go to work today.” She needs the day off to carefully consider her follow up actions.
She dried off the rest of her body and put on her home clothes. She did not put on a bra.
She sent a message to her boss to apply for a day off work because she had an eye from her back. She'd better leave out the details. What was she supposed to do at work today? Then she laughed a bit to herself for remembering that she had to prepare for a some unimportant presentation tomorrow.
She had read in the newspaper that a woman reported discovering an eye in a cupboard. Stranger things had been reported in newspapers nowadays. She could not recall what was reported in the article.
She poured milk from the fridge into a glass. There was not enough to make a glass full. She ran out at one-third glass. Hating it when that happens, she thought to make some iced coffee.
If she could see with the eye on her back, would she only see the inside of her clothing? What good is that for?
She reached behind to feel it again. She wondered if she wished to find it gone, and it was just an elaborate hallucination that she cannot explain. But it was still there. She realised that the shocking manner of the truth hasn't really sunk in yet.
After some lack of deliberation, she decided to go back to sleep and decide what to do when she wakes up again. She had a whole day to decide. That is, if she can go to sleep, with the coffee and all. She ought to just lie down. Perhaps, she would lie down on her side.
When she closed the eyes on her face, she felt the eye on her back blink.
(sneak)
She asked herself what day was it and she didn't reply immediately.
She was looking at travel ads before going to bed. She thought about going to Egypt on her own. She tried to remember if she dreamt about Egypt in her sleep. She couldn't recall before the alarm went off again.
With the alarm going off, it could not be a weekend. She sighed and sat up. A pillow fell off the other side of the bed.
She scratched her head and quickly wished she would not have bad hair today. Her nails were long again. If she washed her face enough times, she would have to trim her nails. Her stomach made a weird sound. She supposed she was hungry.
She felt an ache in her right thigh and another one in her left ankle.
There was a lump growing out near her spine at her back. She's been putting off going to the doctor's about it, because she could not remember if she always had a thing growing there since she was little. She was lazy and it did not bother her enough. It was smaller than her thumb. That was how she would describe it to the doctor. A lump that was smaller than her thumb. She was proud of herself for thinking of that in the morning. She contorted her arm to feel for the lump. It was in between her shoulder blades. Perhaps it was more like a bump. A lump like a bump that was smaller than her thumb. That would be stretching it a little. She stretched the skin on the bump, and thought it was too early in the morning to be playing with words.
She took off her clothes and switched on the shower. She liked the feeling of the water over her skin. She soaped herself. She felt a small sharp pain. It was the first time the lump on her back hurt. She rinsed the area more carefully and wondered if there was an open wound. She did not feel any just now, but it had hurt like soap over an open wound.
She decided that she would at least look at it in the mirror before she worry. She couldn't get a good look.
She strutted naked across the room to get her compact powder. There was a mirror in there she could use. So she held up the mirror from her used compact close to the lump to reflect it in the bathroom mirror. Her hands were wet. It was awkward. The powder was dampened.
There was a lump growing on her back. On the lump, the thin fold of skin made a horizontal slit across it. It did not look like a wound and she gently pushed the skin fold apart with two fingers and it hurt. So, she used her forefinger and her thumb to pull down the lower side of the slit to be clear. She was shocked at what she saw.
There was an eye beneath it.
She dropped her arms and contorted posture. She exchanged a confirmatory, reassuring glance with herself in the mirror. Then she mumbled, “what the fuck” and recomposed herself again to take a better look.
She had an eye growing out of her back, and it looked blood shot. She thought for a while and know she could not see what the third eye saw, and could not remember reading about anything like this. Except for those foetus in foetu people who are born with a conjoined twin inside themselves. They had a face or arms or legs sticking out of their body. It was beside the point. She only had an eye. Other than this morning, the growth did not bother her. Does it warrant going to the doctor now?
With genuine gladness, she announced to herself, “okay. This makes enough reason to not go to work today.” She needs the day off to carefully consider her follow up actions.
She dried off the rest of her body and put on her home clothes. She did not put on a bra.
She sent a message to her boss to apply for a day off work because she had an eye from her back. She'd better leave out the details. What was she supposed to do at work today? Then she laughed a bit to herself for remembering that she had to prepare for a some unimportant presentation tomorrow.
She had read in the newspaper that a woman reported discovering an eye in a cupboard. Stranger things had been reported in newspapers nowadays. She could not recall what was reported in the article.
She poured milk from the fridge into a glass. There was not enough to make a glass full. She ran out at one-third glass. Hating it when that happens, she thought to make some iced coffee.
If she could see with the eye on her back, would she only see the inside of her clothing? What good is that for?
She reached behind to feel it again. She wondered if she wished to find it gone, and it was just an elaborate hallucination that she cannot explain. But it was still there. She realised that the shocking manner of the truth hasn't really sunk in yet.
After some lack of deliberation, she decided to go back to sleep and decide what to do when she wakes up again. She had a whole day to decide. That is, if she can go to sleep, with the coffee and all. She ought to just lie down. Perhaps, she would lie down on her side.
When she closed the eyes on her face, she felt the eye on her back blink.
(sneak)
A lonely long legged fly
A long legged fly landed on a rock on a windy coast one evening. It was at an area near to where the river met the sea where the wind was well-known to be especially strong. As he struggled to stand still, the wind would blow away at his wings, stomach, antennae, and even at his long slender legs, making it difficult for the little fly's feet to remain firmly on the ground.
“If only I had somebody here with me,” the little fly lamented as he found a little rock to shield himself from the wind, “then we could laugh and make this incidents into acts of comic and laugh at how each other cannot stand still.”
The little fly sighed, feeling alone, feeling lonely.
“How I wish I was more like the grey little butterfly over there,” said the fly to himself of a little grey butterfly that was flying about lowly amongst the grasses, perhaps, collecting nectar off the wayside flowers of the coast. “Even though I wouldn't be very beautiful, I would have more confidence to make friends with the dragonfly. Which has wings that are so big and that are so strong that they are loud.
“Then again, I might as well wish that I were a dragonfly,” said the fly, a little more loudly this time, as he saw some dragonflies dancing around a tree nearby. The fly did not know what the dragonfly was doing, but thought that if he were the dragonfly... “surely I would understand why then dragonflies fly around trees sometimes.”
Then the fly had a tiny epiphany.
“Maybe they are trying to make friends with the birds! Of course! If I were a dragonfly, I would surely make friends with the birds.
“Then I'd better wish that I was a bird then. A very large bird. That could fly very, very high.” The little fly raised his voice and his little head to face the sky to look for the highest flying bird that he could wish to be like.
The golden sun was setting and coloured the clouds orange, pink and purple.
“I can do no better than to wish that I was a cloud!” He cleared his throat and confidently announced to the lack of audience, “Then I would be higher than everybody and bigger and mightier. I could rain and make birds and dragonflies and butterflies and stupid little flies, like me, miserable!” The fly heaved a loud conclusive sigh, proud for arriving at such a complicated solution.
It would be good and timely if he could fold his hands behind his head and lie on his back to admire himself and the clouds. But as he realised as he turned two rounds about himself, he could not lie on his back, and felt stupid for turning rounds about himself, and quickly hope that nobody saw him.
He looked into the sky and realised that the clouds were different from how he just saw them.
Alas! Thought the little fly, even mighty clouds are subjected to the forces of the wind as well! And they wouldn't be able to find a rock to shield the wind from. Even though they are so mighty and they usually have friends that they probably don't need. Do clouds feel lonely too?
He was disappointed with the world and felt faint and nearly lost his footing again. He was too disappoint to not realise that even the mightiest of seas had to bear the forces of the wind. He was too disappointed to simply wish to be a gust of wind.
......
It was quite dark by the time he recovered himself from the desperation and he wondered if he should be getting back home. Then he concluded that he need not, since nobody was waiting for him anyway. He sighed again and looked at the water and wonder why the dark sea was so vast. It is curious how a little fly had so much capacity to sigh.
The moon was up. The little fly was cold and angry and unable to bear his perceived plight, so he shouted,
“Why is the world so unfair to me? I'm just a little long-legged fly! I have brought fault to nobody! Yet, I am so lonely. Nobody wants to be my friend.”
(sneak)
“If only I had somebody here with me,” the little fly lamented as he found a little rock to shield himself from the wind, “then we could laugh and make this incidents into acts of comic and laugh at how each other cannot stand still.”
The little fly sighed, feeling alone, feeling lonely.
“How I wish I was more like the grey little butterfly over there,” said the fly to himself of a little grey butterfly that was flying about lowly amongst the grasses, perhaps, collecting nectar off the wayside flowers of the coast. “Even though I wouldn't be very beautiful, I would have more confidence to make friends with the dragonfly. Which has wings that are so big and that are so strong that they are loud.
“Then again, I might as well wish that I were a dragonfly,” said the fly, a little more loudly this time, as he saw some dragonflies dancing around a tree nearby. The fly did not know what the dragonfly was doing, but thought that if he were the dragonfly... “surely I would understand why then dragonflies fly around trees sometimes.”
Then the fly had a tiny epiphany.
“Maybe they are trying to make friends with the birds! Of course! If I were a dragonfly, I would surely make friends with the birds.
“Then I'd better wish that I was a bird then. A very large bird. That could fly very, very high.” The little fly raised his voice and his little head to face the sky to look for the highest flying bird that he could wish to be like.
The golden sun was setting and coloured the clouds orange, pink and purple.
“I can do no better than to wish that I was a cloud!” He cleared his throat and confidently announced to the lack of audience, “Then I would be higher than everybody and bigger and mightier. I could rain and make birds and dragonflies and butterflies and stupid little flies, like me, miserable!” The fly heaved a loud conclusive sigh, proud for arriving at such a complicated solution.
It would be good and timely if he could fold his hands behind his head and lie on his back to admire himself and the clouds. But as he realised as he turned two rounds about himself, he could not lie on his back, and felt stupid for turning rounds about himself, and quickly hope that nobody saw him.
He looked into the sky and realised that the clouds were different from how he just saw them.
Alas! Thought the little fly, even mighty clouds are subjected to the forces of the wind as well! And they wouldn't be able to find a rock to shield the wind from. Even though they are so mighty and they usually have friends that they probably don't need. Do clouds feel lonely too?
He was disappointed with the world and felt faint and nearly lost his footing again. He was too disappoint to not realise that even the mightiest of seas had to bear the forces of the wind. He was too disappointed to simply wish to be a gust of wind.
......
It was quite dark by the time he recovered himself from the desperation and he wondered if he should be getting back home. Then he concluded that he need not, since nobody was waiting for him anyway. He sighed again and looked at the water and wonder why the dark sea was so vast. It is curious how a little fly had so much capacity to sigh.
The moon was up. The little fly was cold and angry and unable to bear his perceived plight, so he shouted,
“Why is the world so unfair to me? I'm just a little long-legged fly! I have brought fault to nobody! Yet, I am so lonely. Nobody wants to be my friend.”
(sneak)
Monday, 28 July 2008
Of Supreme Importance
With the multitude of grand documentaries on people's lives and ancient wars, the world seems to be eagerly retelling their marvellous stories to me. Even when I am not there to watch or read, the televisions, movies, books, etc. are narrating something exciting to somebody.
I must have achieved very little with my life compared with the many who achieved so much.
I have not travelled to a war torn country nor saved an endangered animal. Neither had I been attacked by one. Nor even rescued a single stray dog. I am not a victim of violence who triumphed against life's odds nor a vet. I am not a noble historian of Mongolia nor an authority on modern weapon. I have never seen anybody killed nor a plausible sasquatch footprint.
I think it's quite clear. My life is not remarkable. Unrepentant, I am even grateful for not experiencing the events that would make my life somewhat remarkable. I do not enjoy tribulations and hardship.
Moreover, I have newly established an aversive principle towards travelling and vacations. I recognised that my memories from vacations are not proportional to the small fraction of my life that I have on vacations. This should not be the case. The bulk of my life should be the most enjoyable, and the best moments should not be most defined by the fragments of time I steal away from my mundane routines. Thus, I need not travel to make the most out of my time. I will derive a way to make the everyday the best of my time.
Surely, the fallacies in this perspective are garish. Novel experiences will make life move interestingly, otherwise, sleep should be the most interesting parts of life. Then again, lately, I have been having quite interesting dreams...
It is relatively meaningless that I feel like maintaining my position, for now.
So, evaluate how I've spent my day so far: 4 hours on watching television and eating intermittently, 2 hours on reading, 5 hours on writing and 2 hours on watching the skies and observing how the clouds move on a rainy day in July and random birds fly. Do you know why birds sometimes fly in spirals in the sky?
I have a new understanding on why I write mostly fiction. I enjoy writing fiction.
People will change. But before that, people are already different.
Is it of supreme importance that we must make ourselves happy?
==
Last night, I saw two gorillas in my dream. They were initially grazing on a forest floor, amidst simple ferns, until one of them turned to look at me.
Suddenly, I remembered from somewhere that in this case, I should avert my gaze to show the gorilla that I am not antagonising to him and that I should be submissive. But I didn't want to submit to the gorilla. I was aware that the gorilla was strong and mighty enough to kill me on a whim. But I could not reason with this. I didn't even want to appear submissive to the gorilla.
Our eyes were met.
The ape had great brown eyes and stared into mine. It was neither friendly nor aggressive. I presumed this since I am very ignorant of interpreting gorilla's expressions.
It did not move.
I was more inclined to decide that the gorilla is female, but I do not know anything. This was my dream, perhaps, I could decide everything.
I realised that I only had the gorilla's face left in the image. The rest of the gorilla had dissolved completely into a darkness while I was preoccupied with holding its gaze. This had happened quickly, as things does sometimes in dreams. The other gorilla had long gone.
When my attention returned to the face, other than the features, the rest of the face started to fade to black as well. What was left were the gorilla's round brown eyes and the hollows around them, the nose and nostrils, the curves around the mouth... they began to grow somewhat bright. They were like the bright spots of blindness after the flash from a camera shocked your eyes...
It composed an eerie impression.
The glowing shapes drifted slowly apart from each other. The distance between both eyes spread like they were pushed apart by some dark matter... something about the negative space reminded me of a ghost or the cloak of death. Could this be an omen?
I must abandon the image in my mind.
I do not dare to speak or write much about ghosts or death. For I am afraid that when I do meet death, my descriptions may be unsatisfactory, and I would deeply regret my portrayal without ever having the opportunity to rewrite what was written.
==
Dian Fossey (1932-1985) was an American scientist who extensively studied and observed the gorillas in the mountain forests of Rwanda.
She was an advocate of the conservation of mountain gorillas and was against poachers and zoos. Her long term research on gorillas ended when she was murdered. Details of her murder are shrouded with much controversy. She was buried next to a male gorilla who was killed trying to protect his family from poachers. He was one of her favourite gorillas.
(Sneak)
I must have achieved very little with my life compared with the many who achieved so much.
I have not travelled to a war torn country nor saved an endangered animal. Neither had I been attacked by one. Nor even rescued a single stray dog. I am not a victim of violence who triumphed against life's odds nor a vet. I am not a noble historian of Mongolia nor an authority on modern weapon. I have never seen anybody killed nor a plausible sasquatch footprint.
I think it's quite clear. My life is not remarkable. Unrepentant, I am even grateful for not experiencing the events that would make my life somewhat remarkable. I do not enjoy tribulations and hardship.
Moreover, I have newly established an aversive principle towards travelling and vacations. I recognised that my memories from vacations are not proportional to the small fraction of my life that I have on vacations. This should not be the case. The bulk of my life should be the most enjoyable, and the best moments should not be most defined by the fragments of time I steal away from my mundane routines. Thus, I need not travel to make the most out of my time. I will derive a way to make the everyday the best of my time.
Surely, the fallacies in this perspective are garish. Novel experiences will make life move interestingly, otherwise, sleep should be the most interesting parts of life. Then again, lately, I have been having quite interesting dreams...
It is relatively meaningless that I feel like maintaining my position, for now.
So, evaluate how I've spent my day so far: 4 hours on watching television and eating intermittently, 2 hours on reading, 5 hours on writing and 2 hours on watching the skies and observing how the clouds move on a rainy day in July and random birds fly. Do you know why birds sometimes fly in spirals in the sky?
I have a new understanding on why I write mostly fiction. I enjoy writing fiction.
People will change. But before that, people are already different.
Is it of supreme importance that we must make ourselves happy?
==
Last night, I saw two gorillas in my dream. They were initially grazing on a forest floor, amidst simple ferns, until one of them turned to look at me.
Suddenly, I remembered from somewhere that in this case, I should avert my gaze to show the gorilla that I am not antagonising to him and that I should be submissive. But I didn't want to submit to the gorilla. I was aware that the gorilla was strong and mighty enough to kill me on a whim. But I could not reason with this. I didn't even want to appear submissive to the gorilla.
Our eyes were met.
The ape had great brown eyes and stared into mine. It was neither friendly nor aggressive. I presumed this since I am very ignorant of interpreting gorilla's expressions.
It did not move.
I was more inclined to decide that the gorilla is female, but I do not know anything. This was my dream, perhaps, I could decide everything.
I realised that I only had the gorilla's face left in the image. The rest of the gorilla had dissolved completely into a darkness while I was preoccupied with holding its gaze. This had happened quickly, as things does sometimes in dreams. The other gorilla had long gone.
When my attention returned to the face, other than the features, the rest of the face started to fade to black as well. What was left were the gorilla's round brown eyes and the hollows around them, the nose and nostrils, the curves around the mouth... they began to grow somewhat bright. They were like the bright spots of blindness after the flash from a camera shocked your eyes...
It composed an eerie impression.
The glowing shapes drifted slowly apart from each other. The distance between both eyes spread like they were pushed apart by some dark matter... something about the negative space reminded me of a ghost or the cloak of death. Could this be an omen?
I must abandon the image in my mind.
I do not dare to speak or write much about ghosts or death. For I am afraid that when I do meet death, my descriptions may be unsatisfactory, and I would deeply regret my portrayal without ever having the opportunity to rewrite what was written.
==
Dian Fossey (1932-1985) was an American scientist who extensively studied and observed the gorillas in the mountain forests of Rwanda.
She was an advocate of the conservation of mountain gorillas and was against poachers and zoos. Her long term research on gorillas ended when she was murdered. Details of her murder are shrouded with much controversy. She was buried next to a male gorilla who was killed trying to protect his family from poachers. He was one of her favourite gorillas.
(Sneak)
Sunday, 27 July 2008
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