1 year ago
Thursday, 12 November 2009
Oxonians use the 2-minute respites in their reading schedules to write crap like this:
I like the pattern of irregular dark splotches the falling raindrops make on my grey cardigan. They seem to have a significance I really should know.
Friday, 30 October 2009
The Trouble With Andrew
Andrew put the foot on his shorter leg forward and took a tentative first step on his upward journey through eternity. His gangly frame lurched unstably, his shoulders dropped with an awkward jerk, and only by pulling his much longer right limb in line with the much shorter left did he regain his balance (in the sense in which he understood it). It was a familiar sensation for the man who through all the years of his long life had struggled valiantly with his disability, and attempted the arduous trek up the imposing Maxwell Hill on almost a daily basis. You could really forgive his heart for overflowing with dread and fear, for on all his previous attempts he had met with the sort of physical pain and discomfort that would put off even the most dogged and persistent. Not once had he reached the summit, and he was now a wizened old man playing a game that demanded the exuberance and energy of youth.
He had come to know the "Welcome to Maxwell Hill: Safety Instructions..." sign like the countenance of an old friend. If you bothered to stop and listen to him speak, he would have told you that this was, in all probability, his only friend. The first time he saw it all those years ago, he greeted it with caution, bending to examine the script that was engraved into its torso of solid wood. And then there was a time when in his haste to proceed on he barely noticed its presence, before there came a point when its familiar silhouette brought Andrew the reassurance that his daily routine was in progress and on course for completion. Of course, nowadays what was once a block of firm wood had aged into a moist lump shorn of its elegant edges, with its face beginning to reveal the wrinkles that blemish faces once perfect in their youth. The frequency of the freckles that dotted the sign also betrayed the good work of termites over the years. Reading the white print, which was now partly obscured by a gangrenous growth, brought Andrew a deep warmth in his heart of the sort you get by chatting affably with someone dear to you.
He drew out a long, meaningless sigh as he struggled to put one foot before the other. This daily trek up the wooded trail had long been a lonely furrow down the darkening depths of memory lane. Each time Andrew glanced up from the mushy soil underfoot, his gaze would be greeted by a landmark with its own story to tell. There was the large row of hedges which he had once fallen into after being knocked over by a cyclist who had lost control. Just up the road was a slight kink in the trail, not particularly worthy of notice but for the memory of how he had once been stopped there by a group of adolescents mocking him for his disability. Every so often the trail would pass by a pavilion by its side, in each of which Andrew was certain he had spent time waiting out those ferocious tropical thunderstorms that curtailed his adventures for the day. And then there was the ditch about three-quarters of the way up the hill, into which he had fallen, out of sight and hurtfully, that one fateful time when the blazing sun had left him severely dehydrated and exhausted. Factor in the number of times Andrew had simply tripped over the outgrowing roots of trees or on the gravel, and still you would be nowhere near the full picture. But we have to leave all that for another day, for it was a new chapter that Andrew wanted to write today.
It surprised Andrew that it took him half the journey to the summit to develop the first hints of cramp. It was normally this, of course, that heralded the onset of the overwhelming fatigue to which he invariably succumbed. He first felt the stitches behind his ankles, an enveloping tightness that made him dread those moments in time when his foot was off the ground and the ankle had to bear its load. From that point on, his efforts at accommodating this new companion merely seemed to invite more of its kind to other parts of his deformed anatomy. Soon the curve of his foot began to tighten up as a response to the alteration of its natural trajectory, and when it spread to his abdomen and stomach Andrew began to sense the coming of those doubts which never seemed to quit plaguing him. The trouble with these things is that you cannot stop to rest and nurse them away, for once the adrenaline ceases its circulation, your problems will simply mount. And he hadn't many hours of daylight left either.
Andrew's debilitation was brought on by the dull, nagging pains. They were also augmented by the constant fear that things would take a downward turn and he would have to face the stark reality of his physical impediment once again. He took to scanning his field of vision for those distance markers attached to lampposts, for they would tell him how much further his unobliging body would need to be dragged (not that knowing this would make the peak come any closer to him). His gaze was expectant as one of these markers, bathed and glinting in the light of the baking sun, appeared in the distance. In his despair, he had taken (as usual) to counting down the number of metres to the promised land, to laboriously working these lengths into fractions and proportions of the entire distance he had had to traverse. He crossed his fingers and flailed at hope as fortune's representative came into view. Two seconds later, he found himself starting in bemusement as the board revealed he, in spite of what seemed to be an ominous bout of cramp, had made it to within sixty metres of the summit.
The sudden and unexpected knowledge that he had come closer than ever to achieving the goal of his life seemed to arm Andrew with extra ounces of strength. He looked around him at the other climbers, but the consummate ease with which they took their steps perturbed him no longer. In fact, it was probably these other people who had reason to be envious - oh how they wished surmounting the challenge of a modest hill could bring them such unbounded joy too! - as they watched Andrew's already-clumsy motions get more awkward as he struggled to rein in his delight. He grinned up at the cawing crows. Even they had the right to sing today. He saw the lines of trees on either side of the trail come to their conclusions not too far ahead. He began to catch sight of the landing which served as the observatory; in the glorious sunshine it seemed to beckon with a golden glow. Even the ground on which he walked had taken on a rosy hue. He straightened himself up, fixed his gaze forward so as to assume a look of steely composure, and strode into the unimpeded sunshine with a royal-esque dignity you think only possible in fables.
He scanned the faces of the other victors at the summit. Some of them displayed a quiet and peaceful satisfaction, some of them wore a relaxed smile, and some of them seemed preoccupied with the world they should have left behind. Was this all it meant to them to finally get to the very top? Feeling underwhelmed, Andrew slowly edged toward the precipice to obtain a view of the surrounding lands. He approached tentatively, wondering, no doubt, if he should find what he thought he would. He closed his eyes, envisioning a lush landscape with rolling fields of an intense green on one side, dotted by the deep blue of restful ponds; with the bustling town on the other, fighting to contain its energy within its resplendent array of shapes and buildings; and a silent river in between to harmonise the two worlds in its permanent fixity. He opened his eyes, and there it all was! It was as though he was returning to a scene he had once captured in his mind's eye. But there he was, looking at the wonders of the world for the first time, instantly marvelling at the sights he saw in the distance. He thought he smelt the dew from the lush grass in the mornings, felt the rush of wind left in the wake of a speeding car, and heard the phenomenal din that was the marketplace; he thought he heard them somewhere deep, deep down in the pits of his heart. He leaned over the railing as his tears of triumph deprived him of his one sensory reality. He attempted another glance at the horizon, but through the cloudy moisture of his eyes all he could make out was the wistful smile of the now-setting sun. He turned and retreated as the imminence of twilight dawned upon him.
He had come to know the "Welcome to Maxwell Hill: Safety Instructions..." sign like the countenance of an old friend. If you bothered to stop and listen to him speak, he would have told you that this was, in all probability, his only friend. The first time he saw it all those years ago, he greeted it with caution, bending to examine the script that was engraved into its torso of solid wood. And then there was a time when in his haste to proceed on he barely noticed its presence, before there came a point when its familiar silhouette brought Andrew the reassurance that his daily routine was in progress and on course for completion. Of course, nowadays what was once a block of firm wood had aged into a moist lump shorn of its elegant edges, with its face beginning to reveal the wrinkles that blemish faces once perfect in their youth. The frequency of the freckles that dotted the sign also betrayed the good work of termites over the years. Reading the white print, which was now partly obscured by a gangrenous growth, brought Andrew a deep warmth in his heart of the sort you get by chatting affably with someone dear to you.
He drew out a long, meaningless sigh as he struggled to put one foot before the other. This daily trek up the wooded trail had long been a lonely furrow down the darkening depths of memory lane. Each time Andrew glanced up from the mushy soil underfoot, his gaze would be greeted by a landmark with its own story to tell. There was the large row of hedges which he had once fallen into after being knocked over by a cyclist who had lost control. Just up the road was a slight kink in the trail, not particularly worthy of notice but for the memory of how he had once been stopped there by a group of adolescents mocking him for his disability. Every so often the trail would pass by a pavilion by its side, in each of which Andrew was certain he had spent time waiting out those ferocious tropical thunderstorms that curtailed his adventures for the day. And then there was the ditch about three-quarters of the way up the hill, into which he had fallen, out of sight and hurtfully, that one fateful time when the blazing sun had left him severely dehydrated and exhausted. Factor in the number of times Andrew had simply tripped over the outgrowing roots of trees or on the gravel, and still you would be nowhere near the full picture. But we have to leave all that for another day, for it was a new chapter that Andrew wanted to write today.
It surprised Andrew that it took him half the journey to the summit to develop the first hints of cramp. It was normally this, of course, that heralded the onset of the overwhelming fatigue to which he invariably succumbed. He first felt the stitches behind his ankles, an enveloping tightness that made him dread those moments in time when his foot was off the ground and the ankle had to bear its load. From that point on, his efforts at accommodating this new companion merely seemed to invite more of its kind to other parts of his deformed anatomy. Soon the curve of his foot began to tighten up as a response to the alteration of its natural trajectory, and when it spread to his abdomen and stomach Andrew began to sense the coming of those doubts which never seemed to quit plaguing him. The trouble with these things is that you cannot stop to rest and nurse them away, for once the adrenaline ceases its circulation, your problems will simply mount. And he hadn't many hours of daylight left either.
Andrew's debilitation was brought on by the dull, nagging pains. They were also augmented by the constant fear that things would take a downward turn and he would have to face the stark reality of his physical impediment once again. He took to scanning his field of vision for those distance markers attached to lampposts, for they would tell him how much further his unobliging body would need to be dragged (not that knowing this would make the peak come any closer to him). His gaze was expectant as one of these markers, bathed and glinting in the light of the baking sun, appeared in the distance. In his despair, he had taken (as usual) to counting down the number of metres to the promised land, to laboriously working these lengths into fractions and proportions of the entire distance he had had to traverse. He crossed his fingers and flailed at hope as fortune's representative came into view. Two seconds later, he found himself starting in bemusement as the board revealed he, in spite of what seemed to be an ominous bout of cramp, had made it to within sixty metres of the summit.
The sudden and unexpected knowledge that he had come closer than ever to achieving the goal of his life seemed to arm Andrew with extra ounces of strength. He looked around him at the other climbers, but the consummate ease with which they took their steps perturbed him no longer. In fact, it was probably these other people who had reason to be envious - oh how they wished surmounting the challenge of a modest hill could bring them such unbounded joy too! - as they watched Andrew's already-clumsy motions get more awkward as he struggled to rein in his delight. He grinned up at the cawing crows. Even they had the right to sing today. He saw the lines of trees on either side of the trail come to their conclusions not too far ahead. He began to catch sight of the landing which served as the observatory; in the glorious sunshine it seemed to beckon with a golden glow. Even the ground on which he walked had taken on a rosy hue. He straightened himself up, fixed his gaze forward so as to assume a look of steely composure, and strode into the unimpeded sunshine with a royal-esque dignity you think only possible in fables.
He scanned the faces of the other victors at the summit. Some of them displayed a quiet and peaceful satisfaction, some of them wore a relaxed smile, and some of them seemed preoccupied with the world they should have left behind. Was this all it meant to them to finally get to the very top? Feeling underwhelmed, Andrew slowly edged toward the precipice to obtain a view of the surrounding lands. He approached tentatively, wondering, no doubt, if he should find what he thought he would. He closed his eyes, envisioning a lush landscape with rolling fields of an intense green on one side, dotted by the deep blue of restful ponds; with the bustling town on the other, fighting to contain its energy within its resplendent array of shapes and buildings; and a silent river in between to harmonise the two worlds in its permanent fixity. He opened his eyes, and there it all was! It was as though he was returning to a scene he had once captured in his mind's eye. But there he was, looking at the wonders of the world for the first time, instantly marvelling at the sights he saw in the distance. He thought he smelt the dew from the lush grass in the mornings, felt the rush of wind left in the wake of a speeding car, and heard the phenomenal din that was the marketplace; he thought he heard them somewhere deep, deep down in the pits of his heart. He leaned over the railing as his tears of triumph deprived him of his one sensory reality. He attempted another glance at the horizon, but through the cloudy moisture of his eyes all he could make out was the wistful smile of the now-setting sun. He turned and retreated as the imminence of twilight dawned upon him.
Monday, 26 October 2009
梦在手里 - 蔡淳佳
我把每天都看成一道风景
雨天或是晴天都值得纪念的美丽
我把每天都当成一个节气
感动和悲喜回忆的痕迹都用心聆听
我不去相信上天注定
梦想握在手里
相信只要努力会有奇迹
爱可以操纵天气
当狂风暴雨遮蔽了眼睛
让爱暂时喊啼
我不让希望再旷野流离
梦想一直前行
当幸福只剩下檫肩距离
我决不会放弃
只要守着坚定他总会有
属于我的动人剧情
总有一天幸福会同行
雨天或是晴天都值得纪念的美丽
我把每天都当成一个节气
感动和悲喜回忆的痕迹都用心聆听
我不去相信上天注定
梦想握在手里
相信只要努力会有奇迹
爱可以操纵天气
当狂风暴雨遮蔽了眼睛
让爱暂时喊啼
我不让希望再旷野流离
梦想一直前行
当幸福只剩下檫肩距离
我决不会放弃
只要守着坚定他总会有
属于我的动人剧情
总有一天幸福会同行
Sunday, 27 September 2009
Sunday, 13 September 2009
Stare
I stand at my window counting raindrops. One, two, thr - no, only two and a half, for this one by my right finger is ostensibly smaller. So is that one, that one that struck my pane at an angle leaving its mark as a nasty diagonal slash. And there, that one there exceeds one, but shorts shy of two. Its perfect curvature is interrupted right at its bottom, where the boundary line takes a shortcutting arc through the circle that should be, giving it the outline of a flatspotted tyre. I hear its voice scream, scream "Let me be free!", free from the surface tension that holds part- but only part - of its molecular blob still, free to continue its descent down the length of the windowpane, free to do what it was ordained to do, free, free, free.
I continued watching the raindrops. I continued being perturbed by the one sitting three inches off centre just on the left of the windowpane. I would have liked to have known its shape, but there it stood no more than a tiny speck. It could have been nicely round, or it could have been elongated, or sharp at one end, or not. But there it crouched, there it stayed huddled, there it hoped to avoid my probing gaze, for it must have been afraid. Afraid that it might be known the contours of its imperfect form, the story of its unillustrious past, the secrets of its very being.
Thirty-one, thirty-one-and-a-half, thirty-tw - what happened there? I watched, half taken aback and half madly intrigued, as my eyes having retraced their steps back to the origin of their arduous count failed to find the scatter pattern whose permanence for granted had been taken, and saw instead an unfamiliar new arrangement. Flustered, I searched for those drops whose profiles I had carefully studied and learnt. But I found nothing I could recognise. Recognise for the location which it had to call its own, recognise for the words it had once uttered to me, recognise for the gait and appearance and countenance and expression I thought I would always know.
Instead I settled to watch as, gradually, the droplets zigzagged towards the foot of the pane, leaving behind discernible traces of their passage. I knew that little drop there, that one that appeared pointed at its head, to have traversed the distance from X to Y with a minute change in course as it skirted around a large cluster of other jousting droplets. My gaze made the reverse trip from Y to X, but never made it that far. I saw a second round blob whose trail had formed a junction with that of the first, and which was just leaving that junction in the direction the first droplet had gone. This demarcated route it stuck to with immaculate precision, and it seemed to gain in momentum so as to close in on the back of the pioneer of that very route. I felt my heart pounding away, begging in its fury for a stay of execution, begging for fortitude against submission, begging, in vain, "No, dont..."
Staring at the mundane in the depths of the night is all I can do to stay awake.
I continued watching the raindrops. I continued being perturbed by the one sitting three inches off centre just on the left of the windowpane. I would have liked to have known its shape, but there it stood no more than a tiny speck. It could have been nicely round, or it could have been elongated, or sharp at one end, or not. But there it crouched, there it stayed huddled, there it hoped to avoid my probing gaze, for it must have been afraid. Afraid that it might be known the contours of its imperfect form, the story of its unillustrious past, the secrets of its very being.
Thirty-one, thirty-one-and-a-half, thirty-tw - what happened there? I watched, half taken aback and half madly intrigued, as my eyes having retraced their steps back to the origin of their arduous count failed to find the scatter pattern whose permanence for granted had been taken, and saw instead an unfamiliar new arrangement. Flustered, I searched for those drops whose profiles I had carefully studied and learnt. But I found nothing I could recognise. Recognise for the location which it had to call its own, recognise for the words it had once uttered to me, recognise for the gait and appearance and countenance and expression I thought I would always know.
Instead I settled to watch as, gradually, the droplets zigzagged towards the foot of the pane, leaving behind discernible traces of their passage. I knew that little drop there, that one that appeared pointed at its head, to have traversed the distance from X to Y with a minute change in course as it skirted around a large cluster of other jousting droplets. My gaze made the reverse trip from Y to X, but never made it that far. I saw a second round blob whose trail had formed a junction with that of the first, and which was just leaving that junction in the direction the first droplet had gone. This demarcated route it stuck to with immaculate precision, and it seemed to gain in momentum so as to close in on the back of the pioneer of that very route. I felt my heart pounding away, begging in its fury for a stay of execution, begging for fortitude against submission, begging, in vain, "No, dont..."
Staring at the mundane in the depths of the night is all I can do to stay awake.
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