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07 September 食，戒最近在关心李安的新电影“色，戒”。 把张爱玲的原作又看了一遍。食色，性也。我来一个“食， 戒”， 故事主人公是王佳芝, 一个２５岁的女人，地点在西湖边上的某个城市。待续。 26 January 春天里的雪因为搬到了一个暖和的地方，这个冬天没有下雪。春天在湿漉漉的绿叶和阴沉沉的天空里早早地到来了。下午她坐在暖洋洋的窗边翻看着以前的照片，回忆。。。 阳台外是一面白乎乎的墙， 没有什么太多可供想象的资料。 深呼吸，对 她来说空气的味道足够了，足够把记忆里的春天穿成一串， 然后可以拿在手里，象糖葫芦一样细细品尝。 表面是甜的， 脆的，轻轻咬上一口是有酸也有甜， 再吃几口还要吐核儿。 有一阵子没烧牛尾汤了，自然也就没空一边抽烟发呆一边想象牛鞭的味道。最近倒是喜欢上了看书发呆。 钻到被窝里前总要先翻翻Orhan Pamuk的“雪”。 “雪”把她带到土耳其的冬天，破旧的砖瓦和“他”的回忆。 她梦见自己牵着“他”的手一起走在回忆的雪地里， 她想把“他”带到童年的菜市上：马路边灰黑色的雪夹杂着冻蔫了的青菜，苍白的豆腐， 深红色的猪肉， 缩着袖筒的菜农和邋遢的塑料棚子，表哥通红的鼻子，母亲的毛线手套和父亲说话的温度，还有弥漫着腐臭的冷空气。。。这些其实是记忆里春节前的忙碌。 梦里的她和“他”相遇在春天的伊斯坦堡。漫步在Aya Sophia那座古老的宫殿里, 失落和惆怅象一阵冷风飕飕地吹进她的骨头。 醒来的那一瞬间她觉得发闷，感到渺小虚伪。 于是和自己耍赖不愿睁开双眼， 为什么其实他们从来就没有相遇过。。。因为觉得无奈又好笑，她迷迷糊糊地钻到枕头下面又眯了半小时， 睁开眼睛时细细的尘埃已经在漏进屋的阳光里舞蹈了。 上完厕所，她一边刷牙，盯着镜子里满嘴的牙膏泡，一边琢磨丢了点什么在梦里， 这种感觉像毛虫一样慢慢地蚕食着，一秒一秒，一分一分，一天一天。。。即使在做爱的时候也能感觉到身体里的空虚。 临睡前她先让热水温暖了身体，然后靠在床上又翻开了“雪”。 读到“他”带着对童年的温馨回忆从异国走回来， 然后独自站在雪地里寻找童伴的嬉戏声时， 她合上书闭上了双眼。 好一会儿才回过神来，猜测“他” 找到的是褪色的记忆和花白的头发， 就象下午她手里的照片有些发黄。 牛尾汤热气蒙住了她的眼镜。朦朦胧胧的她看见乳白色的汤上漂着黄黄的油花， 一片一片象吸了油的面巾纸。汤里还漂着一块块的黑色珊瑚礁，是香菇。还能看见一些白白的水草，是牛尾上带着的肥肉。刚放过料酒了，还能加点什么？能是烟的香味就好了。她觉得自己好笑，嘴角叼着烟，有点无奈地往汤里加了点醋。还应该有盐， 最后吧。记得母亲说过盐加的早了肉会烧老。 一个凉爽的夏夜，能听见阳台外面人家的呼声，一下接一下，偶尔断了还真让人接不上气来。隐隐约约得还有远处小孩的吵闹声和谁家女人的叫春。虽然已是初夏了， 那微风里传来的声音还是让人很怀念春天的昙花一现， 伴随着粗粗的喘气声哼唧了几下，就扫兴地谢幕了。 还是小孩子的吵闹更有生命力一些。 她用烟点燃了一枝绿色的蜡烛。虽然屋子里都还亮着灯， 蜡烛也还是显得很浪漫。也许到了该加盐的时候。她掀开锅盖，低头闻了闻。 没有期待的香，可能是没有盐的缘故。牛尾汤，不知道牛鞭汤的话会是什么味道。 她给自己盛了一碗， 一段牛尾和一个香菇。 在烛台边熄了烟， 她站在灶台边品尝起汤来。汤和香菇尝起来有一种朴素的鲜味。牛尾有点嚼头， 炖得还不够烂；如果是牛鞭的话，也会很有嚼头。。。她又一次觉得自己好笑，怎么总是想到牛鞭，可能是好奇的缘故吧。她往汤里撒了些盐， 盖上锅盖， 调小了火让它慢慢炖着。 就着蜡烛，她重新点燃一只烟，肚子饱饱的，心满意足地打开阳台的纱门。阳台上的空气清新，她坐下来静听各种声音， 除了那些人的声音，还有楼下小虫的悉悉索索和头上飞机在高空留下的呼呼声。 这里的夏夜是凉爽的，她想象着如果是一个湿润闷热的夏夜，那会象霍乱时期的爱情里一样，什么都是黏糊糊的，凝固的空气，天上的月亮，小虫的悉悉索索， 还有女人叫春的声音， 男人身上的汗和柔滑的床单。。。她沉浸在自己编造的氛围里， 觉得有只小虫在肚子里蠕动，有些想做爱又有些懒懒的。她吸了一口烟， 想到还是小女孩的时候， 那种沉浸在朦胧的想象世界里的朦胧感觉， 没有生理的反应，只有被有限的想象包裹着的无边的期待。 那是怎样的一种美丽和天真的罪恶感。等人老时，是不是一种平静的美丽， 一种沉浸在往日记忆里的幻觉， 就好像这烟头在黑暗里一闪一闪，思念着前面那些被抽掉了的烟灰。 她捻熄了这个烟头，起身回屋去。 从阳台回到屋子里，扑面来满蔓延着牛尾汤的香气， 有些让人觉得闷。她走到炉子边， 用根筷子去戳一戳那些牛尾上的肉。一戳肉便从骨头上滑开， 看来是烧烂了。 31 July 夏日午睡和风筝那只风筝总在灰色粘稠的天空中飞翔。 空气是闷热的， 我接连几天在读着“放风筝的人“ （The Kite Runner）。 阿富汗的土巷灰尘， 大胡子，长袍子和放风筝的画面在我的脑海里来回翻滚。 屋檐下瘦骨嶙峋的乞讨者， 充血的眼睛，满口残缺的黄牙是我昨天刚读过的片段。透过沉重的眼皮我隐约看见枕头边自己的手，肿胀的肉色，眼皮又和上时，看见昨天逛街时我远远躲开的那些躺在商场出口处落魄的乞讨者， 心里却空虚地回荡着朋友们喝茶时聊的爱情和婚姻。战乱和老房子， 忠实的老仆人和扭曲的人性， 我的脑海里没有他们轮廓只有抽象的感觉， 就象梦魇一般。还有那段昨晚出租车上的广播“一个阴森的老妇人披散着头发，长长的指甲“也出现在阿富汗的土巷那头。我咽了一口吐沫，把头转到另一边，心里在琢磨着是不是该穿上自己的白色麻裙子配高跟凉鞋和朋友见面时显拔显拔， 加上今天又刚涂的红色指甲油。 头发吗该洗洗了，会凉快清爽点，然后让它披散着会和裙子比较配。我孤魂一般站在阿富汗阴森的老房子里， 望着旧金山傍晚冷冷的雾气和SOMA区发着酸臭的无家可归者， 回想暑假里外婆家曾经阴湿的老房子和街头乐呵呵的傻子和乞讨者。 我躺在老房子一楼的凉床上， 我穿着咖啡色轻柔的丝绸裤子奔跑在阿富汗灰土色的街头。 15 December A Day Wandering -- Chapter0."Many things happened before you realize,
just natually.
On the road,
full of wind and rain,
it comes, natually
it goes, quietly.
Just look at yourself with a smile,
just wandering
in this life." A Day Wandering -- Chapter1. LandingThere’s a block of air between a huge blue and the edge of a land. The bird circles the edge several times and finally lands right by the blue April in Nice is still a little bit cold. As usual, I am sitting in a coffee shop, flipping a magazine aimlessly, aimlessly as my eyes just wander around. As usual the eyes fixed themselves toward the window, the people on the street, they seem in style I think and ‘What are they doing?’ Looking outside, every time, I think of that book ‘little bean by the window’, one of my favorites from childhood. A book about how a naughty little girl observes quietly the things around her; how a little girl looks outside the window with odd ideas in her little brain; how a little girl does all kinds of wired things. I was very much fascinated with the idea that kids should have buses as their classrooms and travel around; kids should all swim in a swimming pool naked to recognize that any kind of body is beautiful; a little girl dreams of her desk mate and sharps pencils for him every morning, and twenty years later when they meet they just can’t help laughing. I smile, a little bit … A few days ago, a friend told me she recently read a lovely book about a little girl, and she felt I was very much like that ‘little bean’ in the book. I sip the black coffee as memory brings me back to those years in dorms, those days in Beijing. The days I wrote about a little mouse by my bed, and how sometimes at night it talked when another girl talked in her dreams. Several times I tried to make conversations with both but failed; several times a friend beat me by successfully making a ‘symphony’ out of his roommate’s snoring. The days I collected articles for our newspaper, and a boy wrote about ‘umbrella and raincoat’ that he distinguished as ‘an umbrella you can share but not a raincoat.’ The days boy students sat on campus and sang to girls passing by ‘Girl, girl, you are pretty, pretty; police, police, you hold no mercy; you want cars; you want houses; I can’t steal and I can’t rob …’
A Day Wandering -- Chapter2. Five O'clockMy clean hands are reflected in a mirror and I see a clock. It’s five in the morning; it’s time to open the windows. Outside is dark, foggy and the yellow road lamps seem to be telling a story. So I put on my black shirt and sloppy jeans, walking into the story. It’s a story about a quiet old town with wet gray stone allies. The allies are just like those from my city, but we have green mosses in the cracks. The shops are still closed in the morning. Maybe I hope they open early but I enjoy walking, slowly along the colorful bricks and walls. Through the allies I come to a small plaza in front of a church. It was very crowded yesterday afternoon. There were a lot of people sitting outside drinking, and live music. There was an ice cream store in the wall, right there by the grocery. Its interesting name “Grasshopper” caught my eyes. The man selling ice creams was wearing a funny green hat and he did somehow look like a grasshopper, as least I thought so yesterday. I tried a spoonful of their special “grasshopper ice cream” and he told me ‘It’s sorbet.’ A song goes ‘The taste of the first bite of a cake, the comfort from the first toy you got … sun rise, sun set, an ice cream cries…’ That sorbet was crying in my left hand under the summer Milan sunshine. Five minutes ago I was enjoying a lunch on Via Dante covered by the shadows of the mansions. Plaza Duomo spread in front of my eyes as I was chewing the leaves from the exquisite salad plate. The lady next table peaked at me several times, I figured she was curious of my style of a pair of sunglasses and a long thick gray coat in that weather, or, it’s just my smell from two-days-shower-free. Five minutes later Castello Storzesco loomed up before me. I had a glance at “Salle delle Asse”, a frescoed room some attributed to Leonardo da Vinci. I smiled, trying to mimic that sick one Mona Lisa wears. If they provide any brown bags I wanted to throw up right away, sorbet or salad I hadn’t made up my mind yet. ‘Bonjour,’ a man greets me. He has a big broom in the hands and a witty smile on the face. ‘Bonjour’ I am a little bit shy and wonder whether he is a wizard that could fly with the broom. Morning and a man with a broom seem to be somewhere, in the missed memory of autumn mornings. In primary school if I was ‘on duty’ that day, we collected autumn leaves into a pile and burned it into ashes. Usually it was fun, for we could escape one class in the name of this ‘duty’. Several minutes passed as I looked quietly at the smoke rising lazily from the pile of the burning leaves, and the falling leaves from a big tree above. I pictured the leaves as the big tree’s tears, as dreary and beautiful as it could move myself to tears, tears smoked out by that thin smoke. Along the sea shore there is nobody yet, except me wandering, an old man fishing. His red jacket decorates the edge between ocean blues and sand yellows. At night, ocean was all dark, water, clouds, seaweed, and my swimming suit. I floated in the water with the seaweeds as the tide went up and down. That was my first experience of swimming in ocean, and it was in Qinghuandao, a city by Yellow Sea. Nothing there impressed me more than the octopuses. Those animals faced my sharp chopsticks each meal every day in various dishes without even a blink, I meant, if they could. Anyway, my skin was melting in the ocean and I was addicted to the feelings that Anderson’s little mermaid might experience when she was turning to the bubbles. As most people know this Anderson guy has beautiful imaginations. I figured out the secret finally when standing in front of his statue in Radhuspladsen. How could a normal skull compete with that large bronze head, and with a hat on the top? To remember this fact I bought a fairytale book of his at the Copenhagen train station and wrote another fact on the first page:’At Copenhagen train station, year XXXX’. A Day Wandering -- Chapter3. Flower MarketCats and dogs were pouring down when I was standing at a crossing around the ‘I love it’ (Tivoli) Gardens, a crossing that led to anywhere of noises, strangers, cars, and some language. My void mind was lingering with that moment in the vertical gray. More and more people are coming to the flower market, they start to put up beach umbrellas and take out tulips, fruits, cloisonné vases, old records and comic books including ‘Tintin’s Adventure’. ‘The Blue Lotus’ grew out in a lotus pond. The seeds of the lotus were blue, dark blue. I sat on a bamboo bed on the balcony in the evening, listening to the cicadas singing on the trees towards the end of the summer day. Moths danced for me in the flowers, mosquitoes told stories by my ears. At that time I was a little angel on the patio. An old lady is drinking a bottle of Evian under her sun umbrella. Our eyes greet in the middle of the air when I drink from mine. The whole street is showering in the ocean breeze and soft morning sunshine, temporarily starting a whole new day. I want to invite her curiosity onto a small boat that pillows on the night river. I pictured a sleepy poem of a thousand years that was composed of a pure setting moon, wailing crows, skyful frost, riverful maples, fishing light, sleepless worries, the old Suzhou city, the cold hill temple, and the midnight bell. Some said if you listen carefully you would hear someone shouting at the midnight bell in Cathedrale Notre-Dame in Laussane. The atmospheric Escaliers du Marche delivered me to the top of the old town hill at midnight with the hope to meet Hugo’s hunchback in the, 21st century, 'may I bring you uptodate'. But he did not show up, maybe he was drinking wine that night quietly on the top of tower enjoying the winking of the stars above the foggy lake (Lac Leman). A Day Wandering -- Chapter4. SunshineBeyond words is that cold sunshine on the foggy lake (Lac Leman) in my mind. The fountain spreads out its sail in the breeze, sailing its drops of water. The sunshine is becoming dazzling as the cuckoo clock hits nine o’clock. Once at nine o’clock I was lying in bed staring at the ceiling. The sunlight was moving, forming beautiful patterns on the ceiling. The old clock dragged his heavy legs forward, one second, another second … Every second beat on my little heart; every second drained a little bit more from me; every second I felt the feeling of missing for the previous second that I was forever missing, that I was afraid I was moving to death already before I grew up. I stared at the painting on the wall, counting the branches of a big tree again and again. From time to time I trembled in the sounds of the old vine chair. I closed my eyes but saw a white roll and a black roll of cloths jump from the chimney right by my bed. They swirled and swirled, into wizards in white and black robes. Under the morning sunshine I am looking at the map, looking for a direction to Mont Alban and its fortress. Across the Nydeggbrucke bridge were the poor bears caught by the people from Berne. I met a little girl in this medieval town. She told me to help her send some comic books to an old lady from the post office by the 14-century’s fountain. She was in a white skirt, singing, dancing, and disappearing at the end of the street. I waved to the little girl, I felt to cry but no tears … It starts to get warm that sweat wets my black shirt as if I just wake up from a nightmare. There are people biking and jogging up and down the hill of Mont Alban. I lean against a fence towards the red roofs that overhang the seashore and then squeeze my eyes to the dazzling sunshine. Tears came out, finally. A few drops dripped on my calligraphy, merged with black ink that plum blossoms climb on characters. Before I could breath the sun was already shining on the paper through the window. That little girl waved to me disappearing again among black plum blossoms, like playing ‘hide and seek’ in the old house when we were little girls together. Not until many years later, did I meet her again in the shady old house. I said ‘I found you’ and opened my arms. Her face was vague and her voice was cold as hell ‘Look at me, now’. But I just didn’t want to look; I closed my eyes, ‘I don’t care’ and my only wish was to give her a hug as warm as I could and let’s play ‘hide and seek’ again. My heart sank, sank all the way down the bottomless hole at the moment that I woke up with a hug of void feelings to find the little girl forever gone. A Dreamer -- Chapter1. A Mosquito's DreamA mosquito was taking a nap on a leaf ..Claire was born with frustration. From time to time she has been looking for the meaning of life. After living hopefully one third of her life, right now, she thinks ‘life is a state of mind, sometimes it’s all about choices’ as she tells her friends. About herself, she would say 'when I look frustrated, I am actually not; when I am not, actually I am.' Unpredictable things come to her life, and she smiles and says 'very funny'.When four years old, she asked her mom ‘Is this life?’ in a sunny afternoon after school. Her mom was scared and consulted with her friends. To Claire, mom is more like a sister and friend. They played around together, laughed and cried together. Mom told Claire she used to have a kitty, it could fly to the sky to see the ocean. Now Claire understands how wise and loving a person needs to be to feel the feelings of a kid. One year later, in another sunny afternoon, she was sobbing looking at her father taking a nap. She was imagining of death after watching a movie. At her eighth birthday, she made a gift for her mom because she knew her mom went through a hard time this day eight years ago. In the same year her family moved to another district, where she met a bunch of ‘bad’ kids at school. She was so confused that she read the Bible and began her life with a pair of thick glasses. Now she is no longer curious of what she looks like with glasses. About her future careers, she had several very very serious thoughts. One possibility could be an insectologist, but this dream was broken when she found herself very much afraid of worms. One possibility could be an austronaut, but that meant you couldn't have scars on your body, which was impossible for a clumpy girl. One possibility could be a president that you could travel around frequently like that in the CCTV news, but seemed presidents were all old men. One possibility could be an artist, which meant piles and piles of bowls and dishes in the kitchen, living like that old happy professor... en, none of these seemed close enough, she'd better go back to her homework. About her romantic life, she fell in love with a little cute boy sitting in the first row. Thus she started her real diary. This secret love story lasted several years. About fourteen years later, she bumped into him in a McDonald. She laughed at herself how much she had changed while that boy seemed the same. However, the memory of a little girl is always beautiful. One summer she finished reading 'David Copperfield' in a bathtub with the white clouds and blue sky outside the window. She felt herself was similar to David and oftentimes so much moved by David or herself. Dropping her father's book in to water in a hilarious laugh she started the 'cold war' against him. The 'cold war' against her father lasted till she left home and headed up north for college, which she knew she would not enjoy but for the sake of its strictness, challenge, bad climate, her lack of discipline and admiration for her grandfather. And more important she wanted to flee away from her love with a boy because she knew there was much more ahead she needed to experience. Sometimes it is about timing. And she followed her mind instead of heart at the time. So far, several books made her dreams of future career more focused. She became very much into biology, maths and physics. Biology is about lives. Maths is one of the most beautiful things in the world; it does not depend on matters. Physics comes from philosophy. In the summer nights, she sat with her grandma in a bamboo bed on the balcony listening to her talking about poems, the stories of the stars, the days when she was young and there're wars and revolutions, and about us, women. When grandma left at the age of ninety-one Ying was not by her side. The mosquito stretched a little bit and fell asleep again ... The college she went to was like a small city with a lot of four-eyed people deep inside the bushes. Although the name of the college is poetry the life there was not, which was not a surprise but still gave her a hard enough time. The first autumn in freshman year, she was reading 'Lust for Life' (biography of Von Gaugh) while other students were preparing for final exams. It turned out she almost failed in Algebra that she switched to study with just a little bit hesitation. Walking along the hallway in the oldest building on campus at night, she felt her grandfather’s spirit is around. She wanted so much to greet it although/because she has never seen her grandfather. She had so many doubts about the family to ask him, wanting him to give her some peace in heart. Standing among the historical debris of Yuan Ming Yuan (Garden of Perfect Brightness) with friends under the bright cold moon, she doubted about her existence. In the sophomore year, a classmate, who has the same birthday as her, jumped from the dormitory building and turned to be a pile of flesh. Somehow she felt some part of her died with him. Since he was the one who died she must live. At the year of nineteen she met a guy who was twelve years older than her. He asked her to dance and talked about his plan of a university and he would build it in the historical debris of Yuan Ming Yuan. Furthermore, he needed a wife for the future, blah blah blah… All right then, she did not like the idea or the person, thus she fled. Now the guy realizes his plan and is the executive of his university, but still she is not fond of his idea. ‘Go f… yourself’, she would say.
That summer, she traveled with friends to Mongolia and lit a lamb oil light in a northern Buddhism temple (five willows temple)…
In order to save a Guinea pig in one winter, she met a guy whose eyes were like those of a dead fish. His sadness scared her, but if anybody could give him a little bit warmness she would burn herself, bravely. It's something she wouldn't end up with but just couldn't avoid. She knew it started the days with love but without hope.
Thus, she lived the first two years in an engineering school and the other two years in a science & liberal art school. Those two schools are both beautiful but of totally different styles and atmospheres. The scent of flowers after rains, the lakes, the libraries, the sculptures, the gardens, the fried squids... Sometimes Ying sat on a wall with the dead fish looking at the students gathering for political issues, or she looked at the dead fish in the crowd from the back. This is just a super political sensitive place with tons of boiling young blood. Her blood was boiling but quickly frozen. She would hold if she could, but still there were times she couldn't.
When it's time to move on, they seperated. After almost four years, when they could talk about those days, the dead fish sighed and talked about humbleness, about everybody had his right to grow his own life. Nobody needs to lead anybody; nobody is on top of anybody. Yes, humbleness, that's what every one of us needs. For those of us who once lost the humbleness, we'll find it back someday, sooner or later. There is no need to be sorry for it's the certainty of youth. And let's forgive ourselves and the others...
'What ?... Zzzz', the mosquito talked in its dream ...
Leaving the dead fish, Claire went to an even colder place and spent five years pursuing something called the Permanent Head Damage. During this time, she began to wear contact lenses and thus began to observe the world outside the glasses frame. It's in this place of long winters that she did some serious and sincere thinkings about seriousness and sincerity. She had been trying to be sincere but found out that instead of being objective sincerity actually led people into subjectivity and selfishness because sincerity blocked your view of other people's feelings. So she decided to remind herself from time to time.
Sometimes she just spent some time in the sofa for the sake of being a head damaged person, listenning to George Winston or Keith Jarrett. Sometimes she talked seriously with friends in coffee shops. Sometimes she watched cartoons with her happy genius roommate. Sometimes she eat ice cream on a balcony when her friends were drinking in smoke and playing guitar. When there were times she could not hold thinkings (usually stimulated by research, and end up with something about philosophy of life; the meaning of Ph.D. makes sense now ) her father told her there's sun set and there's sun rise the next morning. She devoted herself to the length of Marathon cause once she missed the height of Himalaya. She liked jogging along the river in summer days, with sunblock on her body and on her heart ( a joke by Hiroko, Yuko and Claire, and some other jokes like 'ke gani', 'let your hair grow and glow' ..., very women stuff). Joni Mitchell is a good company at these times. To make the life of six months every year more enjoyble, she started ice skating and ski. 'Happy hiking' by squared fruit is perfect for night ski. When it's close to the accompolishment of the head damage, she picked up painting once again. She confessed she would never be good at technoloy news as her labmates because when they were checking EEtimes, she was checking fashion websites.
Since the head damage was already permanent, Claire chose to admit to it and live happily with it. She started travelling, purusing more head damage.
Meeting people on the streets and talking life she heard what they wanted was just a wife. It's good that now you want something but don't forget the world spinning. Once all she wanted was just simplicity but gotta struggle with the ordinarity. If a five-minute conversation is a short version let's keep moving after the smoking. If we are the people on the way; keep it going cause any way goes the same way, don't you see. A twenty-two year old boy Live your life a little bit slowly, slowly Borrow some time, go to Tibet, and keep your bet. --------- to a stranger in Denmark, and thanks
The mosquito yawned and sticked out its tongue...
At the age of thirty-five, she lived in a small apartment and oftentimes was in the coffeeshop downstairs, either looking at people or reading a book, especially in those raining mornings. Or she was writing something listening to a song again and again, like the way Haruki Murakami wrote 'Norwegian Wood'. She had a lovely daughter; she didn't expect life would be any easier for her, but she'd teach her how to smile as mom taught Ying.
After she was forty, Claire began to make a living by palm reading and astrology on the street. On the side she taught 'scribbling and being naughty' in a kinder garden. She started to enjoy every trivial thing in daily life, a cup of tea, an apple, the singing of birds outside the window, the breath of herself in the morning and 'Songs without Words' by Schubert. She was still writing her diary, discovering interesting relationships among everything. She dreamed herself become a butterfly, and thought about that old story of 'Zhuangzi and a bufferfly'. Aha, it's a butterfly dreamed itself become Ying. Well, well, well... Ying preferred to be in the dream of a mosquito.
At the age of fifty, she wanted to move back to her home city. She had been too long away from the small rivers, little bridges, watery air, willows and bamboos. Let the first poem she learnt lead her way back home. Unfortunately she found out her home was nowhere, instead it's anywhere. As there was no way back, she kept moving on like a snail. Returning back to the five willows temple, this time she took the lamb oil light with her and grabbed a handful of blessed rices.
She settled down in Nice, France at the age of fifty-five. Couldn't be happier to take a walk on the beach and wet narrow streets in the morning and greet people. The watery air was so familiar, and the color of the wind...
There were several friends in her apartment, they were a hamster, two rats, a Guinea pig and a little red cactus. She adviced her neighbours to eat a cat when they got poisoned by eating fish, and then they sang 'Le petit chat est mort' together.
In the summer days, she spent hours looking at the ants moving. In the autumn, she spent hours looking at the clouds, smelling the smell of falling leaves.
Walking among the trees in a sunny afternoon, the seventy-six years old Ying wanted to climb onto a tree to take a nap. Yes, it's a beautiful afternoon; the breeze of the wind came into the dream with her mom's lullaby. Everything is so quiet now... This is life. The mosquito is busy putting on contact lenses. Sometimes Claire talks with her father about frustration. He told her he did not get through it until he was forty. ‘Ok’, she thinks, ‘I’ll live through it.’ |
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