Today is the last day of 2008. Never will I experience such a tumultuous, yet enriching year. Never will I put "o8" as part of the date on my laundry slip. Never will I spend one whole year without touching the soil of my homeland. And never will I forget this episode of my life, a year to be commemorated.
From Sichuan earthquake to Beijing Olympics, I have witnessed how a nation rose up from disconsolate dispirit to uproarious celebration. From global economic crisis to Mumbai terrorist attack, I foresee what kind of legacy this uncommon year would leave us, a mission yet to be fulfiled, and a dillemma yet to be solved. From the beginning of my Sec 3 life, to the dawning of my graduation year, I have experienced what growth really means: you have to live through it.
People usually wish each other "happy" at every celebrating occasion. Happy birthday. Happy Labour Day. Happy Valentine's Day. Happy April Fool's...Finally comes to Happy New Year, which marks an ending to the whole year's "happy" wishes, and heralds a new year's anticipation of joy. Joy does not necessitate hilarious sensations. For me, the last day of this year was spent in a "sublime" way, quietly exhilarating. Some go to Marina Bay for the countdown; some share the last day of 2008 online with their friends; some are hurrying back Singapore for a new school year; and some welcome the upcoming of a new year for the sake of a "new" year, as the night draws to its end. When the time comes, won't we enjoy the same excitement? I wonder.
As we are about to wave goodbye the passed year, I feel a strong urge to look back the path I come, or, if possible, tread back to the starting point, when I was nothing but an uncertain "new" student in Nan Hua, everything was unfamiliar and everywhere cast an unforeseen shadow. I did not know when the mist began to disperse, nor did I know the exact time when what had befoged me died away. All I knew was that I lived through it, and I did not know why.
Now, think about what I was feeling one year ago, I feel invigorated, refueled, buoyed, and bolstered. Facing the unknown, I was so optimistic, and so undeterred by any possible setback. Facing the unfathomable, I was so carefree, and so light-hearted. Now, standing at the threshold of 2009, I know what I am facing, and I can foresee what is awaiting ahead. Only that I hope I will never lose my origianl optimism and determintion; only that I hope time does not and will not abrade my passion and belief for what I am pursuing.
Also comes to an end is the school holiday. It is subtly unsettling when one comes to his or her graduation year. Unlike China, when there is literally no school holidays before graduation year, here we could still relish a relaxing holiday before we sit for our O Level. It's like wrapping a caterpillar in a cocoon and seeing it metamorphose into a butterfly. This holiday let me find my cocoon, a place to rest, and a place to change, for which I shall forever hold a gracious attitude.
Finally, my mum and dad. Though I saw your faces for a meagre ten days' time in this 2008, I am sure our hearts are meeting every day. Though I seldom express my love in an explicit way, I am sure you can hear what my mind says. Though we occasionally went through tirades from both sides, I am sure we never let a grain of unhappiness tarnish our pure and mutual love. In the aforementioned aspects, I find great solace and strength to work hard on.
Faraway friends, I heard your voices. I thank you for your touching letters and your heartwarming encouragements. We shall always rotating on our orbits, and see if in some future time fortune will bring us to meet again.
One year has passed, 365 days, 8760 hours, 525600 minutes, 31536000 seconds. Now, let's hope that in the next 31536000 seconds everyone will fulfill his or her wishes through hardwork, mutual understanding, and love, which is a basic requirement for us since we came to this world.
Happy 2009!
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Changes...
The new term is looming, and everything changes so quickly. Daniel and Mia have returned back, which reminds of how quickly everything will relapse into the original style of life. I see a void...I see a blank sheet of paper, tinted with the paint of the Past.
The school holiday is over. We will be entrusted to new tasks. We will stumble over new barriers, and we will have to fill the void, again.
"Brain, character and soul----it is only when one sees enough of the world that one gets to know how distinct they are."
Arther Conan Doyle
Friday, December 26, 2008
The Thirteenth Apostle
It is with a bit awe and disquiet that I finished Michel Benoit's "The Thirteenth Apostle", a mixture of religious thriller and suspense fiction. The plotline is rather remarkable, beginning with the mysterious murder of Father Andrei, who had discovered the top secret that would have the potential to threaten the very foundation of the Church and denounce the belief upon which the whole Christianity was built. Darkness hovers over the whole book, leaving little space for me to heave a sigh of relief. But in the end, I am quite reassured that righteous characters had found peace and contentment in their search of truth, which led them to the way of eternity.
As a prominent religious scholar and novelist, Michel Benoit possesses every trait of a good writer. His "The Thirteenth Apostle" is qualified in every way to be compared with "Da Vinci Code", which is also a religious thriller, but far less plausible. From those delicately composed chapters which contain the "flashback" scenes of the life of Jesus and his apostles, I could see Michel really had remarkable scholastic repertoir.
Language-wise, the novel is less promising because the poor translation irked many a reader and became intolerable in their critical eyes. There is quite a lot of repetition in the use of words that perniciously abates the literary value of the novel, though its original French version might be better. Some commentators on Amazon.co. disliked the book for its lack of suspense, which is quite contrary to my point of view. Not only does the writer make a great effort on pushing the plot forward in a logical and progressive way, he also pays special attention to set up suspenses, which made it hard for me to repress my "oohs" and "aahs".
It is also not a novel that ends badly. Till the end of the last chapter, it reveals the author's clairboyant perspective on the independent and interdependent relations between Christianity, Judaism and Islam. And the close sentence "anyone can be a successor to the thirteenth apostle" reveals the real thesis of the novel----not to set up conflicts or to arise upheavals between followers of different religions as it appears to be, but to advocate people of various faiths to procure peace and harmony which are of capital importance.
The writer is a genius, and so does his book----a work of genius.
As a prominent religious scholar and novelist, Michel Benoit possesses every trait of a good writer. His "The Thirteenth Apostle" is qualified in every way to be compared with "Da Vinci Code", which is also a religious thriller, but far less plausible. From those delicately composed chapters which contain the "flashback" scenes of the life of Jesus and his apostles, I could see Michel really had remarkable scholastic repertoir.
Language-wise, the novel is less promising because the poor translation irked many a reader and became intolerable in their critical eyes. There is quite a lot of repetition in the use of words that perniciously abates the literary value of the novel, though its original French version might be better. Some commentators on Amazon.co. disliked the book for its lack of suspense, which is quite contrary to my point of view. Not only does the writer make a great effort on pushing the plot forward in a logical and progressive way, he also pays special attention to set up suspenses, which made it hard for me to repress my "oohs" and "aahs".
It is also not a novel that ends badly. Till the end of the last chapter, it reveals the author's clairboyant perspective on the independent and interdependent relations between Christianity, Judaism and Islam. And the close sentence "anyone can be a successor to the thirteenth apostle" reveals the real thesis of the novel----not to set up conflicts or to arise upheavals between followers of different religions as it appears to be, but to advocate people of various faiths to procure peace and harmony which are of capital importance.
The writer is a genius, and so does his book----a work of genius.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Merry Christmas!
This Christmas is much more silent than the previous one, during which we watched an opera and had an exclusive buffet in a western restaurant. This year everything was subdued that our excitement was greatly abated. Fewer people stay in the hostel. Fewer outing sessions. Fewer activities. And I am less activated. The financial crisis has sent the whole world's economy into a grinding halt. It has become harder and harder to pique custoners' purchase desire, and less and less possible for us to get many Christmas presents.
However, love is not defined by presents. In fact, I find this year's Christmas mood more pervasive than ever. A Christmas tree has been set up in the lift lobby of our hostel and I could barely resist the temptation to put a well-wrapped gift under the pine needles. Though I begin to ignore those advertisements in the Life! section, I find myself more and more riveted to subtle changes brought about by this Yuletide season, like a well -composed poster, a specially packed dinner, or a surprise treat. Right back to November, when I rambled around the Orchard Road, I could smell Christmas out of the air. Various shopping malls were decorated to fit the joyous mood, and almost everywhere I was greeted with smiling faces of customers. Lee Hwa Jewellery Ltd. continues to give out those alluring handouts, but I seldom browse through them like I did last year. On the contrary, when everyone is out for another crazy Christmas, I am more inclined to have a silent night, relishing those sweet days leading to the 25th December.
I recall with suppressed elation how I laughed my tears out when I watched the comedy "Four Chirstmases" with our juniors, L and PVJ, laughing about their plight with some sadistic amusement. I recall with indiscribable warmth how we sat around a table having steamboat dinner, watching the spiralling steam rise and "befog" our glassed. I recall how L. drank coconut milk from a lover's goblet, how my juniors literally "ate like men", and how we marvelled at the night views at Marina Bay.
I recall with heartened relieve that I did not lose contact with a childhood friend after "disappearing" for such a long time. I recall with silent joy when my essay on Tsing Hwa was published in today's Popcorn. I recall with sweetness the time we had log-cake together, enjoy the surprise from the best Santa Clause ever. And, I recall with gratitude the time when I received my first ever ang-pow for Christmas as a token of love.
So many sweet moments are more than enough to make this Christmas a memorable one. What does it matter to have a silent Christmas Eve? After all, isn't it supposed to be a Silent Night?
The night is descending. The Eve has drawn to its close. It is time to sing the carol which is particularly attributed to this special night. May everyone find happiness and peace at this special moment.
"Silent night, holy night,
All is calm, all is bright
Round you virgin
Mother and child.
Holy infant, so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace."
May everyone have a blessed Christmas!
However, love is not defined by presents. In fact, I find this year's Christmas mood more pervasive than ever. A Christmas tree has been set up in the lift lobby of our hostel and I could barely resist the temptation to put a well-wrapped gift under the pine needles. Though I begin to ignore those advertisements in the Life! section, I find myself more and more riveted to subtle changes brought about by this Yuletide season, like a well -composed poster, a specially packed dinner, or a surprise treat. Right back to November, when I rambled around the Orchard Road, I could smell Christmas out of the air. Various shopping malls were decorated to fit the joyous mood, and almost everywhere I was greeted with smiling faces of customers. Lee Hwa Jewellery Ltd. continues to give out those alluring handouts, but I seldom browse through them like I did last year. On the contrary, when everyone is out for another crazy Christmas, I am more inclined to have a silent night, relishing those sweet days leading to the 25th December.
I recall with suppressed elation how I laughed my tears out when I watched the comedy "Four Chirstmases" with our juniors, L and PVJ, laughing about their plight with some sadistic amusement. I recall with indiscribable warmth how we sat around a table having steamboat dinner, watching the spiralling steam rise and "befog" our glassed. I recall how L. drank coconut milk from a lover's goblet, how my juniors literally "ate like men", and how we marvelled at the night views at Marina Bay.
I recall with heartened relieve that I did not lose contact with a childhood friend after "disappearing" for such a long time. I recall with silent joy when my essay on Tsing Hwa was published in today's Popcorn. I recall with sweetness the time we had log-cake together, enjoy the surprise from the best Santa Clause ever. And, I recall with gratitude the time when I received my first ever ang-pow for Christmas as a token of love.
So many sweet moments are more than enough to make this Christmas a memorable one. What does it matter to have a silent Christmas Eve? After all, isn't it supposed to be a Silent Night?
The night is descending. The Eve has drawn to its close. It is time to sing the carol which is particularly attributed to this special night. May everyone find happiness and peace at this special moment.
"Silent night, holy night,
All is calm, all is bright
Round you virgin
Mother and child.
Holy infant, so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace."
May everyone have a blessed Christmas!
Monday, December 22, 2008
A Thread...
A thread of friendship, childhood, and hometown is straightened up again after one year of obscurity and reticence. For the frist time I realise that fitful contacts can just be as heartwarming as regular ones, while striking a sense of surprise at the same time. Being loved and cared is a great feeling, and now the thread is straightened up, I do not want it to recoil again.
Maybe it is just the same as polar bears' hibernation, after a long winter of freezing coldness, spring begins to melt off the snow and greenery begins to glow...Everything is resurrected ever since.
Or maybe, humen beings need more than one hibernation...
"Congratulations" to this post for being my 100th published one on Blogger!
Sunday, December 21, 2008
"Translocation"
After the whole night of hard labour, finally we have moved to our new "house". By the time we have almost finished everything, it was already early morning. This is my third time to move, and my current room will be my last location in this boarding school. RB 05-08.
The location of the room is relatively desirable comparing with my previous ones. After facing the school gate for more than one year, this time we get the chance to change the view. Ahead of us now is an expansive peace of land leading to NUS High school canteen. High altitudes bring us fresher air and a more impressive view of night sky bedecked by twinkling stars. Fewer insects will pester us now since those crawling ones are unable to reach that high, leaving out only those with wings like mosquitoes, flying bees and occasionally dragonflies. Sometimes I think this hostel is a wonderful place for entomologists to carry out observations.
More importantly, it is the peace and serenity that bewitchs me the most. At night, there will be no shouting from nearby Block A and no light will penetrate our window from Television room. Situated in the deeper part of the hostel, my current room allows us a higher level of privacy, which is being more and more highly regarded in this modern world where imfringement prevails.
It is good to be better located, but it takes tolls, too. What we had to pay was late-night transfering between Level 3 and Level 5, with all our household goods: piles of books, bags of clothes, drawers, electronic gadgets as well as other adjuncts like calenders, pen refills, articrafts and even a mask. Scurrying up and down like mouses, we toiled unstop until our hair was all wet dripping perspiration. Upbolstered by a tremendous sense of achievement, we witnessed how our room in Level 5 was filled with goods form Level 3 and eventually, Voila! Our new nest was settled. Thanks to the trolleys which were highly imburdened by our goods, we were spared of the gruesome and the most back-breaking task of transfering our books, with a height challenging Himalayas.
We are not the only ones to move, though. Tonight, Alex, Runy and Jason have moved from Level 5 to Level 7, enjoying an even better view of the skyline lit up by neon lights.
This would be my last room here, and I really cherish it. This is my nest that I will spend my whole Sec 4 year and I believe it will bring me good luck.
Sorrowly taking off our name tag from RB03-02 and placing it on our new door, I still find it hard to think that the next time we take off our name tag, it would take forever to place it on any door of this building again.
We are migrating birds...We will continue to fly, far and high.
The location of the room is relatively desirable comparing with my previous ones. After facing the school gate for more than one year, this time we get the chance to change the view. Ahead of us now is an expansive peace of land leading to NUS High school canteen. High altitudes bring us fresher air and a more impressive view of night sky bedecked by twinkling stars. Fewer insects will pester us now since those crawling ones are unable to reach that high, leaving out only those with wings like mosquitoes, flying bees and occasionally dragonflies. Sometimes I think this hostel is a wonderful place for entomologists to carry out observations.
More importantly, it is the peace and serenity that bewitchs me the most. At night, there will be no shouting from nearby Block A and no light will penetrate our window from Television room. Situated in the deeper part of the hostel, my current room allows us a higher level of privacy, which is being more and more highly regarded in this modern world where imfringement prevails.
It is good to be better located, but it takes tolls, too. What we had to pay was late-night transfering between Level 3 and Level 5, with all our household goods: piles of books, bags of clothes, drawers, electronic gadgets as well as other adjuncts like calenders, pen refills, articrafts and even a mask. Scurrying up and down like mouses, we toiled unstop until our hair was all wet dripping perspiration. Upbolstered by a tremendous sense of achievement, we witnessed how our room in Level 5 was filled with goods form Level 3 and eventually, Voila! Our new nest was settled. Thanks to the trolleys which were highly imburdened by our goods, we were spared of the gruesome and the most back-breaking task of transfering our books, with a height challenging Himalayas.
We are not the only ones to move, though. Tonight, Alex, Runy and Jason have moved from Level 5 to Level 7, enjoying an even better view of the skyline lit up by neon lights.
This would be my last room here, and I really cherish it. This is my nest that I will spend my whole Sec 4 year and I believe it will bring me good luck.
Sorrowly taking off our name tag from RB03-02 and placing it on our new door, I still find it hard to think that the next time we take off our name tag, it would take forever to place it on any door of this building again.
We are migrating birds...We will continue to fly, far and high.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Library-Maniac
In this holiday there seems to be an invisible bond between me and my library, and for the first time I find myself partake of some characters of a library-maniac. Since I registered as a member of National Library Board in November, some connections have been built between me and the library and then naturally, I began to put "going to the library" on my schedule.
Once a week, I would make a tour to "the cauldron of books" and dive into the scent of bookpages, sniff the fragrance out of them. Comparing with slouching on the sofa watching TV, or eye-soring in front of computer screens, gluing to a library indeed is a desirable way to spend a day. Not too plain, not too exciting. While you get to meet strings of people, you do not need to build any relationship with them. While you can observe the surroundings like a theatre-goer, you can also be a part on the stage. Nothing is more inclusive and more exclusive than going to a library. Pitch up a book and that will do. Relaxing, refreshing, inspiring, and RECLUSIVE. Every visit, undeniably, would blow some fresh air to my stale holiday-life.
Today was a red-lettered day. That means my Library Day. The ten-minute bus trip could have take me to anywhere, but I chose to be taken to the library that I had missed one whole week. From outside, Jurong Regional Library was dark and lifeless. Due to the one-way-mirror property of the window panels, people inside can easily get a clear view of what is going on outside while people outside are being exposed and exhibited, which is, unintentionally to both sides. Walking through the over-head bridge can be a relishing process, especially when heading to somewhere that gives you a possessive feeling, warm and secure.
Picking a place to settle down is the easiest and freest thing here. Be it the businessman with a briefcase under his armpit, or a bunch of teens frolicking together, they all can find the exact desirable place to sit down, to kneel down, or even to crouch down. Unlike libraries in China which have a tendency to promote a sedative lifestyle, there are not rows and lines of chairs and tables, but there are ample seats enough to meet the needs--here lies the magic. Not only are the chairs and tables positioned near large windows for sunshine to filter in, but those seats are also of various styles catering to "all and sundry". Standard wooden hard-back chairs, mini-sofas, soft benches, even some sofas in the silent-reading rooms that ensemble seats on the Singapore Airline, all make the library a conducive place not only to stay, but to enjoy.
One day's busy life began as the sunshine shed into the library: a young lady picking up a "Twilight" and cross-legging on a wooden chair; a man in light-orange jacket typing on his "minuscule toy laptop"; a group of teens painting out some project work; and two middle-aged women sharing some domestic secrets. All was well that began well. I fit in one of the empty seats and began on part on the mega stage.
The chill of the library and the continuous dripping sound from the fountain made one oblivious to the calling of sleepiness. One hour passed like twenty minutes, and I did not have to collapse on my cosy bed as usual after finishing a chapter of "Inviible Man". After staying in the air-conditioned ice box for too long and facing the threat of hypothermia, I had to move up to the third floor and bask in front of the giant windows where light rays were readily accessible. Once you sit there, it is your nest, the blaided man next to you your neighbour and the blonde nearby your guest. That is what a library means. A community of strangers distantly bound together and closely related to each other, in a process without vocal words, eye contacts, nor even a greeting. Everyone is a shareholder and everyone feels possessive. "My" library is also "our" library.
That is where the magic lies. That is what makes the place so oftenly frequented. And that is what breeds so many library-maniacs. Count me one. At least in this holiday.
Once a week, I would make a tour to "the cauldron of books" and dive into the scent of bookpages, sniff the fragrance out of them. Comparing with slouching on the sofa watching TV, or eye-soring in front of computer screens, gluing to a library indeed is a desirable way to spend a day. Not too plain, not too exciting. While you get to meet strings of people, you do not need to build any relationship with them. While you can observe the surroundings like a theatre-goer, you can also be a part on the stage. Nothing is more inclusive and more exclusive than going to a library. Pitch up a book and that will do. Relaxing, refreshing, inspiring, and RECLUSIVE. Every visit, undeniably, would blow some fresh air to my stale holiday-life.
Today was a red-lettered day. That means my Library Day. The ten-minute bus trip could have take me to anywhere, but I chose to be taken to the library that I had missed one whole week. From outside, Jurong Regional Library was dark and lifeless. Due to the one-way-mirror property of the window panels, people inside can easily get a clear view of what is going on outside while people outside are being exposed and exhibited, which is, unintentionally to both sides. Walking through the over-head bridge can be a relishing process, especially when heading to somewhere that gives you a possessive feeling, warm and secure.
Picking a place to settle down is the easiest and freest thing here. Be it the businessman with a briefcase under his armpit, or a bunch of teens frolicking together, they all can find the exact desirable place to sit down, to kneel down, or even to crouch down. Unlike libraries in China which have a tendency to promote a sedative lifestyle, there are not rows and lines of chairs and tables, but there are ample seats enough to meet the needs--here lies the magic. Not only are the chairs and tables positioned near large windows for sunshine to filter in, but those seats are also of various styles catering to "all and sundry". Standard wooden hard-back chairs, mini-sofas, soft benches, even some sofas in the silent-reading rooms that ensemble seats on the Singapore Airline, all make the library a conducive place not only to stay, but to enjoy.
One day's busy life began as the sunshine shed into the library: a young lady picking up a "Twilight" and cross-legging on a wooden chair; a man in light-orange jacket typing on his "minuscule toy laptop"; a group of teens painting out some project work; and two middle-aged women sharing some domestic secrets. All was well that began well. I fit in one of the empty seats and began on part on the mega stage.
The chill of the library and the continuous dripping sound from the fountain made one oblivious to the calling of sleepiness. One hour passed like twenty minutes, and I did not have to collapse on my cosy bed as usual after finishing a chapter of "Inviible Man". After staying in the air-conditioned ice box for too long and facing the threat of hypothermia, I had to move up to the third floor and bask in front of the giant windows where light rays were readily accessible. Once you sit there, it is your nest, the blaided man next to you your neighbour and the blonde nearby your guest. That is what a library means. A community of strangers distantly bound together and closely related to each other, in a process without vocal words, eye contacts, nor even a greeting. Everyone is a shareholder and everyone feels possessive. "My" library is also "our" library.
That is where the magic lies. That is what makes the place so oftenly frequented. And that is what breeds so many library-maniacs. Count me one. At least in this holiday.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
The Law of Meat
“The aim of life was meat. Life itself was meat. Life lived on life. There were the eaters and the eaten. The law was: Eat or Be Eaten. He (White Fang) did not formulate the law in clear, set terms and moralize about it. He did not even think the law; he merely lived the law without thinking about it at all. The world was a place wherein ranged a multitude of appetites, pursuing and being pursued, hunting and being hunted, eating and being eaten, all in blindness and confusion, with violence and disorder, a chaos of gluttony and slaughter, ruled over by chance, merciless, planless, endless."
----"White Fang"
Jack London
Friday, December 12, 2008
Back To the Middle Age
Today we watched the movie "Pride and Prejudice" with some Malaysian friends, on a whim. The riveting show set our imagination in motion almost immediately as the story began in an obscure village Netherfield.The background music of piano solo was too brilliant to hypnotize us. In consequence, we sat there watching the whole show and munching on cereals without yawning until late at night we found our necks were too stiff to turn properly.
Pride and Prejudice has always been one of my favourite literary pieces. Despite its old-fashioned usage of language, I still find myself extremely partial to it. In that era characters lived an old way of life, simple and sweet, with treachery not so detrimental, and love not so fierce and passionate, which was of great contrast to the Jazz Age, when people had unrealistic "American Dreams", their backyard gardens stinking of the smell of gin and vodka, and frivolous laughters hovering over their houses till late night. Comparing with the modern age, people in this novel lived a far too sweet life, a life more alluring, attractive and imagination-provoking.
In the time when women had to wear bonnets and high hats and men had to behave like gentlemen, there were not so many varieties of rituals. Lower castes performed curtesy to their higher counterparts and mothers felt proud if their daughters were married at a young age. Sewing, cooking and picking flowers made up the daily life of a normal rustic girl while receiving a letter from a messager usually meant bad news. For an ordinary household, having the opportunity to partake in a high-class dancing party was enough to blow their young ladies' minds. To those who were better-off, ball parties became their peculiar way to relish a cultured and socialised life.
That is why almost all romance in 19th century novels began in ball parties. If a casual encounter was not enough to bring two parts together, then a well-composed invitation and the magnanimous manner of the host might well set a young girl's imagination in motion. On one angle, this kind of story was quite cliche, but Pride and Prejudice stands out and makes a masterpiece due to Jane Austen's superb writing skills and great empathy with characters, which set silent pulses in every reader's heart.
The 2005 edition movie with Colin Firth as Mr Darcy can be seen as the best one to transfer the message of the literature piece. Though my first impression towards Miss Elizabeth was not very promising, I soon found that she the most prominent actress in the whole show with her motherly look and angelic smiles that send warmth down into one's heart, comparing with her meek, compliant sister Jane, stoic, book-addicted Mary, opportunistic Kitty and her most frivolous younger sister, Lydia. Miss Elizabeth is surly the most rational person in the movie and she displayed her amiable and understanding nature to a degree that no one might dislike her, even her marriage-oriented and shortsight mother cannot deny her good traits. However, she is not the good-good girl who restrain to herself and take in everything, oblige everyone. She is headstrong, adamant and brave whenever her personal happiness and family fame is concerned.
Mr Darcy played by Colin Firth, on the other hand, add more colour to this classic movie. Featured for his steely gaze and stern face, he is a piece of ice with hissing flame burning inside. His kindness made him overcome his prejudice to wipe out Mr Wickham's debts in one stroke. Moreover, his fidelity and unwaverly quest towards Miss Elizabeth draped the movie with heartwarming elements that make it a must-watch. When the two happy pairs finally held a quartet wedding together and the holy oath resonated in the church, we all clapped for them, hoping our benediction could eternize their bliss that they had searched for such a long time.
Watching "Pride and Prejudice" was like taking a long journey back to the Middle Age, reliving the scenes when ladies put flowers in their willow baskets, gentlemen sat straight smiling on their birch-bark furniture, and ladies and gentlemen had such exciting journeys before they recognized each other as their soulmates.
Pride and Prejudice has always been one of my favourite literary pieces. Despite its old-fashioned usage of language, I still find myself extremely partial to it. In that era characters lived an old way of life, simple and sweet, with treachery not so detrimental, and love not so fierce and passionate, which was of great contrast to the Jazz Age, when people had unrealistic "American Dreams", their backyard gardens stinking of the smell of gin and vodka, and frivolous laughters hovering over their houses till late night. Comparing with the modern age, people in this novel lived a far too sweet life, a life more alluring, attractive and imagination-provoking.
In the time when women had to wear bonnets and high hats and men had to behave like gentlemen, there were not so many varieties of rituals. Lower castes performed curtesy to their higher counterparts and mothers felt proud if their daughters were married at a young age. Sewing, cooking and picking flowers made up the daily life of a normal rustic girl while receiving a letter from a messager usually meant bad news. For an ordinary household, having the opportunity to partake in a high-class dancing party was enough to blow their young ladies' minds. To those who were better-off, ball parties became their peculiar way to relish a cultured and socialised life.
That is why almost all romance in 19th century novels began in ball parties. If a casual encounter was not enough to bring two parts together, then a well-composed invitation and the magnanimous manner of the host might well set a young girl's imagination in motion. On one angle, this kind of story was quite cliche, but Pride and Prejudice stands out and makes a masterpiece due to Jane Austen's superb writing skills and great empathy with characters, which set silent pulses in every reader's heart.
The 2005 edition movie with Colin Firth as Mr Darcy can be seen as the best one to transfer the message of the literature piece. Though my first impression towards Miss Elizabeth was not very promising, I soon found that she the most prominent actress in the whole show with her motherly look and angelic smiles that send warmth down into one's heart, comparing with her meek, compliant sister Jane, stoic, book-addicted Mary, opportunistic Kitty and her most frivolous younger sister, Lydia. Miss Elizabeth is surly the most rational person in the movie and she displayed her amiable and understanding nature to a degree that no one might dislike her, even her marriage-oriented and shortsight mother cannot deny her good traits. However, she is not the good-good girl who restrain to herself and take in everything, oblige everyone. She is headstrong, adamant and brave whenever her personal happiness and family fame is concerned.
Mr Darcy played by Colin Firth, on the other hand, add more colour to this classic movie. Featured for his steely gaze and stern face, he is a piece of ice with hissing flame burning inside. His kindness made him overcome his prejudice to wipe out Mr Wickham's debts in one stroke. Moreover, his fidelity and unwaverly quest towards Miss Elizabeth draped the movie with heartwarming elements that make it a must-watch. When the two happy pairs finally held a quartet wedding together and the holy oath resonated in the church, we all clapped for them, hoping our benediction could eternize their bliss that they had searched for such a long time.
Watching "Pride and Prejudice" was like taking a long journey back to the Middle Age, reliving the scenes when ladies put flowers in their willow baskets, gentlemen sat straight smiling on their birch-bark furniture, and ladies and gentlemen had such exciting journeys before they recognized each other as their soulmates.
Monday, December 8, 2008
The Rain, The Sea, The Smoke
It rained the whole night last night. The lightening was threatening to sever the boundless sky as the raindrops as big as yellow beans rolled down the roof like overweight three-year-olds sliding down the slide. I was awakened to the incessant thudding of the rain and the howling and roaring of the angry sky, looking out of the window panes smeared with water which blurred my vision.
Faraway, the yellowish-orange light of a church was unwaveringly glowing, illustrating the giant cross erected on top of the roof, yellowish-white against the bluish-black sky, sombre and grave. Yesterday was Sunday, the day when congregates gathered there and sang the hymns, said the prayers and gave out well wishes, when one's soul was cleansed and one's sin was forgiven. And then it was raining, raining heavily and non-stop, lightening striking between the poles and thunder growling inside the walls.
And we were going to the sea, to see the waves and to barbeque at the seaside, to listen to the rymthm of the sea moaning and to share a rainy afternoon together.
Here we goes. The rain dampened my mood but did not wean me off my longing. Undeterred by the downpour which sustained till this morning, the plan went as decided and the air was fresher. The location was East Coast Park, a place well-known to me but by some unfathomable reason, I had never set my foot on it. In the afternoon, two buses transported us along AYE towards East Coast Park.
After being here for one year, I still do not know why that sense of freshness towards this land never flutters. It was understandable for my juniors to get excited and go into the snapshot craze when the beautiful Marina Bay and Singapore Flyer were unfolded in front of them, along with countless skyscrapers erecting like bamboo shoots out of ground, forming the marvellous skyline of this "city of opportunity". But it seemed unreasonable that I, too familiar with the landscape to marvel and sigh, still let the novelty burn inside me and keep it aflame when once again faced with those magnificent scenes. So, I held a secret joy and suppressed elation as the bus slithered along the expressway, past the Fullerton Hotel, OCBC Building, the Cavena Bridge and the Theatre on the Bay. Soon afterwards, we arrived at the park and for my first time, I touched the solid sand on the solid sand beach.
As if responding to a spell, the rain stopped and the sinking sun tainted the horizon with soothing orange. We could not wait to explore and run amok on the beach, leaving a trail of small footprints which were soon washed away by the waves lashing onto the shore. Some barefooted Jing Dezhen girls began to build sand castles as T and W "played the sea" with us. We walked into it, kicked it, stepped on it, and felt it. We felt its coarseness as sands hit our ankles and hid in between our toes, we felt its grandness as the sound of the tide resonating with the call of the sea, and we felt its beauty as the waves rushing to the shore with white bubbles scattering on the sand. Oozz...the ephemeral beauty being repeated once and once again...
The BBQ began as the day grew dark. After finishing my cheese sausage, I took the stickers and tongs and became an assistant. With only the knowledge of cooking fishballs and hams, I faced the challenge of preparing more hard-to-cook food like whole chicken wings, sausages and PORK.
"Do you want medium rare, medium well or well-done?" You might hear this at Jack's Place. But if you apply the same question to the PORK, a grave mistake is done. For no pork can be eaten medium well, all must be well done. Mrs Wong told us the hidden peril of eating uncooked pork meat and we stared each other in shock and half-belief, transfixed at the fact that the man eating uncooked meat got a giant worm in his brainial artery.
Maybe this was not the most appalling part, because it may easily be taken as that kind of bedtime story aimed at scaring young children off their unhygienic habits. But the smoke spiraling upon the mesh soon began to torture me. I was about to be suffocated when some kind-hearted juniors came into rescue and frantically fanned the fresh air into my respiratory system. Occasionally, the smoke would become too thick to be fended away that my tears were driven out as if I was crying, but I found it somewhat comical instead of embarrassing. The smoke continued to spiral as the scintillating scent of the food began to tempt our olfactory nerves. I did not succumb to its appeal though, because the mere smelling of the food made me full!
We ran wild until the day went completely dark, and faraway on the shore, argon and neon lights were brightening up the "sleepless city". Away from the noice of the merry crowds, the silent sea was churning over and over, waves hitting jagged rocked and rolling back reluctantly. Against the breeze, we began to hum the familiar tune, "listen, the sea is weeping..."
Faraway, the yellowish-orange light of a church was unwaveringly glowing, illustrating the giant cross erected on top of the roof, yellowish-white against the bluish-black sky, sombre and grave. Yesterday was Sunday, the day when congregates gathered there and sang the hymns, said the prayers and gave out well wishes, when one's soul was cleansed and one's sin was forgiven. And then it was raining, raining heavily and non-stop, lightening striking between the poles and thunder growling inside the walls.
And we were going to the sea, to see the waves and to barbeque at the seaside, to listen to the rymthm of the sea moaning and to share a rainy afternoon together.
Here we goes. The rain dampened my mood but did not wean me off my longing. Undeterred by the downpour which sustained till this morning, the plan went as decided and the air was fresher. The location was East Coast Park, a place well-known to me but by some unfathomable reason, I had never set my foot on it. In the afternoon, two buses transported us along AYE towards East Coast Park.
After being here for one year, I still do not know why that sense of freshness towards this land never flutters. It was understandable for my juniors to get excited and go into the snapshot craze when the beautiful Marina Bay and Singapore Flyer were unfolded in front of them, along with countless skyscrapers erecting like bamboo shoots out of ground, forming the marvellous skyline of this "city of opportunity". But it seemed unreasonable that I, too familiar with the landscape to marvel and sigh, still let the novelty burn inside me and keep it aflame when once again faced with those magnificent scenes. So, I held a secret joy and suppressed elation as the bus slithered along the expressway, past the Fullerton Hotel, OCBC Building, the Cavena Bridge and the Theatre on the Bay. Soon afterwards, we arrived at the park and for my first time, I touched the solid sand on the solid sand beach.
As if responding to a spell, the rain stopped and the sinking sun tainted the horizon with soothing orange. We could not wait to explore and run amok on the beach, leaving a trail of small footprints which were soon washed away by the waves lashing onto the shore. Some barefooted Jing Dezhen girls began to build sand castles as T and W "played the sea" with us. We walked into it, kicked it, stepped on it, and felt it. We felt its coarseness as sands hit our ankles and hid in between our toes, we felt its grandness as the sound of the tide resonating with the call of the sea, and we felt its beauty as the waves rushing to the shore with white bubbles scattering on the sand. Oozz...the ephemeral beauty being repeated once and once again...
The BBQ began as the day grew dark. After finishing my cheese sausage, I took the stickers and tongs and became an assistant. With only the knowledge of cooking fishballs and hams, I faced the challenge of preparing more hard-to-cook food like whole chicken wings, sausages and PORK.
"Do you want medium rare, medium well or well-done?" You might hear this at Jack's Place. But if you apply the same question to the PORK, a grave mistake is done. For no pork can be eaten medium well, all must be well done. Mrs Wong told us the hidden peril of eating uncooked pork meat and we stared each other in shock and half-belief, transfixed at the fact that the man eating uncooked meat got a giant worm in his brainial artery.
Maybe this was not the most appalling part, because it may easily be taken as that kind of bedtime story aimed at scaring young children off their unhygienic habits. But the smoke spiraling upon the mesh soon began to torture me. I was about to be suffocated when some kind-hearted juniors came into rescue and frantically fanned the fresh air into my respiratory system. Occasionally, the smoke would become too thick to be fended away that my tears were driven out as if I was crying, but I found it somewhat comical instead of embarrassing. The smoke continued to spiral as the scintillating scent of the food began to tempt our olfactory nerves. I did not succumb to its appeal though, because the mere smelling of the food made me full!
We ran wild until the day went completely dark, and faraway on the shore, argon and neon lights were brightening up the "sleepless city". Away from the noice of the merry crowds, the silent sea was churning over and over, waves hitting jagged rocked and rolling back reluctantly. Against the breeze, we began to hum the familiar tune, "listen, the sea is weeping..."
Friday, December 5, 2008
Mumbai Tragedy
Terrorists strike again. This time, the centre of the havoc turned to Asia, to the origin of Indian civilisation, and to the city which is to be a burgeoning metropolis in one decade. Countless innocent hotel dwellers have been held hostage and the death toll is still on the rise, prickling every nerve of those people who are concerned about this tragedy, who grieve over it and who are plodding to seek justice for the victims in this upheaval.
Unavoidably, it makes people think of the U.S.A, who had experienced a similar attack seven years ago, when the explosion of Twin Tower shattered the peaceful dreams of many Americans, and relived the fright and terror they had experienced 60 years ago, when Japanese flights bombed its naval base in Pearl Habour, along with the defeat of the "invincible" Pacific Fleets.
Ironically, history chose to relive this horror, not once, not twice, but like a sharp needle inside a bag, prickling occasionally yet hidden hideously. Mumbai attack emanates that the serpent is letting loose its tooth again. It not only went for the kill this time, it also went for the terror, which is definitive to its terrorist nature, or as somebody puts it, "serpent nature". Suspense is all they want, they want to see the world shock with anxiety, and so put loop nooses around the necks of hostages, waiting to tighten them at any time to hear the world moan, to stoke the fire of their anger.
They are fighters, but they are fighting for nothing. Indiscriminate shooting at a 5-star hotel is not the way to get what they want, not in this world when the majority are law-abiding and are determined to fashion a peaceful life.
One pathetic fact in this attack was that the passport holders of the most developed countries turned out to be the prior targets in this human-slaughtering. Those gunmen knew exactly what they want, they want those who are the most influential to stand closest to the abyss, and to be the first to slide down the precipitous cliff where no life can hang on safely. They want the revenge, they want the retribution. That, is the most sadistic side of human nature, when moral code no longer guides people's way of thinking and doing.
The death of the young Singaporean lawyer evokes my memory of the novel "Hijack". The description of the extreme fear and anxiety experienced by the Canadian hostage still makes me shudder involuntarily. His pleading for life, his prayers towards the god and his strong love for his family did not shield him from his predestined doom. As the words put, "he fell like a bird with broken wings, to where no light can be seen, no voice can be heard, no thoughts can flow as freely as they used to". I wonder if the young lawyer, in her prime age and anticipating for a promising future, experienced the same trauma in the last minute of her life, if she ever pleaded with a bleeding heart, if she ever lived out of her terror and welcomed her death with ease.
When a flower is plucked off before it is fully blossomed, it irks the gardener to find the mischievous plucker. But when it comes to the lives of humans, when it is not merely a flower, but a florescence, or more severely, a flowerbed, it is not the mere criminal to be blamed for, but the whole syndicate behind this murky business.
I moan for those victims who were robbed of their lives in such a ferocious way, I sympathise with those living people who are now bereft and waiting for their incurable wounds to be healed, I feel even more sorrowful for those attackers who dipped their hands in other people's blood, for their "greater freedom".
When some people are superior to others, the beer goes sour. But does absolute equility exist, given that differentiation and variety in species is the foundamental law of nature?
And, should any discontentment or even loathing be expressed only by violence?
Unavoidably, it makes people think of the U.S.A, who had experienced a similar attack seven years ago, when the explosion of Twin Tower shattered the peaceful dreams of many Americans, and relived the fright and terror they had experienced 60 years ago, when Japanese flights bombed its naval base in Pearl Habour, along with the defeat of the "invincible" Pacific Fleets.
Ironically, history chose to relive this horror, not once, not twice, but like a sharp needle inside a bag, prickling occasionally yet hidden hideously. Mumbai attack emanates that the serpent is letting loose its tooth again. It not only went for the kill this time, it also went for the terror, which is definitive to its terrorist nature, or as somebody puts it, "serpent nature". Suspense is all they want, they want to see the world shock with anxiety, and so put loop nooses around the necks of hostages, waiting to tighten them at any time to hear the world moan, to stoke the fire of their anger.
They are fighters, but they are fighting for nothing. Indiscriminate shooting at a 5-star hotel is not the way to get what they want, not in this world when the majority are law-abiding and are determined to fashion a peaceful life.
One pathetic fact in this attack was that the passport holders of the most developed countries turned out to be the prior targets in this human-slaughtering. Those gunmen knew exactly what they want, they want those who are the most influential to stand closest to the abyss, and to be the first to slide down the precipitous cliff where no life can hang on safely. They want the revenge, they want the retribution. That, is the most sadistic side of human nature, when moral code no longer guides people's way of thinking and doing.
The death of the young Singaporean lawyer evokes my memory of the novel "Hijack". The description of the extreme fear and anxiety experienced by the Canadian hostage still makes me shudder involuntarily. His pleading for life, his prayers towards the god and his strong love for his family did not shield him from his predestined doom. As the words put, "he fell like a bird with broken wings, to where no light can be seen, no voice can be heard, no thoughts can flow as freely as they used to". I wonder if the young lawyer, in her prime age and anticipating for a promising future, experienced the same trauma in the last minute of her life, if she ever pleaded with a bleeding heart, if she ever lived out of her terror and welcomed her death with ease.
When a flower is plucked off before it is fully blossomed, it irks the gardener to find the mischievous plucker. But when it comes to the lives of humans, when it is not merely a flower, but a florescence, or more severely, a flowerbed, it is not the mere criminal to be blamed for, but the whole syndicate behind this murky business.
I moan for those victims who were robbed of their lives in such a ferocious way, I sympathise with those living people who are now bereft and waiting for their incurable wounds to be healed, I feel even more sorrowful for those attackers who dipped their hands in other people's blood, for their "greater freedom".
When some people are superior to others, the beer goes sour. But does absolute equility exist, given that differentiation and variety in species is the foundamental law of nature?
And, should any discontentment or even loathing be expressed only by violence?
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Broken...
Computer products are as unreliable as everything else. Everything else! Anything faces the most tormenting peril of being washed, destroyed, devoured...flushed, even a thumbdrive is not spared. Hard discs can be damaged under strong heat, high pressure, or get flooded by water, oil or other ungodly liquids. But the most unbelievable thing happended when their contents were"washed" off right in front of my eyes, without me knowing how and why this happened.
The result of the disc capacity check was appalling:
Used: 0 bytes
Usable: 0 bytes
Everything was gone so easily like water being flushed down the sewage pipe after someone's business. I cannot find anything to express my frustration towards this corrupted computer system.
Then it suddenly dawned on me that our hostel's system administrator just recently restricted all those functions they consider "undesirable". Dark shadows of "purging" started all over again and I do not know when all of "these" will come to an end.
Jesus Christ!
It can just be broken like everything else!
The God of Small Things
"Perhaps, they were the worst transgressors. They all crossed into forbidden territory. They all tampered with the laws that lay down who should be loved and how. And how much. The laws that make grandmothers grandmothers, uncles uncles, mothers mothers, cousins cousins, jam jam, and jelly jelly."
Arundhati Roy
Sunday, November 23, 2008
No Regain!
I lost my camera.
This time, this is a real loss, with no regain...
The trip to Jurong East Library with "my boys and girls" went out better than I had supposed. I registered in the National Library Board and ruefully saw the money being deducted from my POSB account. "It is more than worthwhile! A game disc will cost more than $60!"my junior comforted me. After ruminating I found his words bore some sense: one cannot cling to the notion that money concerns most. There are many more things that deserve our foremost attention, like relationship, emotions, and memories.
Memories. And I lost a "camera" of memories today.
Immersing in the supreme content and bliss after visiting the JE Library with my juniors, I offered to bring them to the Science Centre, which was a mere 8 minutes' walk. Guided by the road signs, we felt that we were each other's safety nets. We chatted jovially all the way until three big words "Singapore Science Centre" greeted our eyes. We bought the most economic kind of tickets and got into the various atria and ventricles of the giant gallery.
Peeping throught the holes...standing in front of an amazing picture...imagining a life in the fish bowl...tricks on the eyes...
We roamed in the Optic Zone until our eyes could not see straight, and all the while I was holding my precious camera, trying to capture some snapshots for my adorable juniors. My sister reprimanded me for taking too many photos instead of paying attention to the physical principles. I had never thought that if I abided by her "rule" and "principle", my camera would not have been taken and I would have been spared of all those predicaments.
Laughing in front of a column of light...reading carefully in the Magnetic Zone..."oohing and aahing" as mysteries of science unfolded in front of us...
I lost track of my footprints, lost track of the time, lost track of my "sense". All I could feel was happiness, tremendous happiness.
Then I stepped into the Discovery Zone...
In the Eco Garden, I played a bridge with one of "my girls". The bricks of the bridge were of the same colour as my camera, which paved the road for my later lament. We failed many times in building the bridge before I decided to really put my heart in it. Then for a slip of mind, I took off the camera from my wrist and began to build the bridge.
It was done. Without a second thought, I joined one of "my boys" to play with the shadows.
"5, 4, 3, 2, 1, BOOM!" the shadow appeared and we uttered a subsued scream.
After the BOOM! I involuntorily slipped my hand into my bag in search of the camera to photo the shadow. And I felt my heart skipped a beat--the camera disappeared!
I immediately went to the Bridge but it was nowhere to be seen.
"Hey! There is another shadow!" the junior called me. I played the shadow perfunctorily again out of politeness and felt really surrounded by an immense shadow.
A Thai man was building the Bridge now and my camera was inside someone's bag, I surmise.
My first thought was to report. But by the time I went out of the Eco Garden, the lightning show was in progress in the main atrium. Everywhere was darkness except the explosive sound of the eletronized air particles dancing around, making ominous screams and dazzling sparks. I felt hopeless, scared as a sense of foreboding began to creep in. Pushing on person after another, I squeezed out of the Atrium, ignoring the lightning show, feeling better out of the concealment of the dark.
My voice quavered with emotion as I reported to the assistant. He must find me amusing, foolish, and reckless at the same time. I rushed through the form and dived into the Eco Garden again, passing throught the applausing crowd.
Still, It was nowhere to be seen.
Remorse was of no use, there was no way to repent for this loss.
I made a phone call home, and as they suggested, enjoyed the rest part of my tour.
Those unretrievable memories, I will try to get them again...
This time, this is a real loss, with no regain...
The trip to Jurong East Library with "my boys and girls" went out better than I had supposed. I registered in the National Library Board and ruefully saw the money being deducted from my POSB account. "It is more than worthwhile! A game disc will cost more than $60!"my junior comforted me. After ruminating I found his words bore some sense: one cannot cling to the notion that money concerns most. There are many more things that deserve our foremost attention, like relationship, emotions, and memories.
Memories. And I lost a "camera" of memories today.
Immersing in the supreme content and bliss after visiting the JE Library with my juniors, I offered to bring them to the Science Centre, which was a mere 8 minutes' walk. Guided by the road signs, we felt that we were each other's safety nets. We chatted jovially all the way until three big words "Singapore Science Centre" greeted our eyes. We bought the most economic kind of tickets and got into the various atria and ventricles of the giant gallery.
Peeping throught the holes...standing in front of an amazing picture...imagining a life in the fish bowl...tricks on the eyes...
We roamed in the Optic Zone until our eyes could not see straight, and all the while I was holding my precious camera, trying to capture some snapshots for my adorable juniors. My sister reprimanded me for taking too many photos instead of paying attention to the physical principles. I had never thought that if I abided by her "rule" and "principle", my camera would not have been taken and I would have been spared of all those predicaments.
Laughing in front of a column of light...reading carefully in the Magnetic Zone..."oohing and aahing" as mysteries of science unfolded in front of us...
I lost track of my footprints, lost track of the time, lost track of my "sense". All I could feel was happiness, tremendous happiness.
Then I stepped into the Discovery Zone...
In the Eco Garden, I played a bridge with one of "my girls". The bricks of the bridge were of the same colour as my camera, which paved the road for my later lament. We failed many times in building the bridge before I decided to really put my heart in it. Then for a slip of mind, I took off the camera from my wrist and began to build the bridge.
It was done. Without a second thought, I joined one of "my boys" to play with the shadows.
"5, 4, 3, 2, 1, BOOM!" the shadow appeared and we uttered a subsued scream.
After the BOOM! I involuntorily slipped my hand into my bag in search of the camera to photo the shadow. And I felt my heart skipped a beat--the camera disappeared!
I immediately went to the Bridge but it was nowhere to be seen.
"Hey! There is another shadow!" the junior called me. I played the shadow perfunctorily again out of politeness and felt really surrounded by an immense shadow.
A Thai man was building the Bridge now and my camera was inside someone's bag, I surmise.
My first thought was to report. But by the time I went out of the Eco Garden, the lightning show was in progress in the main atrium. Everywhere was darkness except the explosive sound of the eletronized air particles dancing around, making ominous screams and dazzling sparks. I felt hopeless, scared as a sense of foreboding began to creep in. Pushing on person after another, I squeezed out of the Atrium, ignoring the lightning show, feeling better out of the concealment of the dark.
My voice quavered with emotion as I reported to the assistant. He must find me amusing, foolish, and reckless at the same time. I rushed through the form and dived into the Eco Garden again, passing throught the applausing crowd.
Still, It was nowhere to be seen.
Remorse was of no use, there was no way to repent for this loss.
I made a phone call home, and as they suggested, enjoyed the rest part of my tour.
Those unretrievable memories, I will try to get them again...
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Orchard
Inside Ngee Ann City
This Wednesday I went to Kinokuniya Bookshop with my sister to hunt for good ones. It is my first time to step into such a grand bookshop here, with purpose, especially. The outing was awe-striking and soothing. This is not hard to understand because Thanksgiving and Christmas are drawing near. You can feel the festive mood almost everywhere----indeed a season of giving.
A season of indulgence.
So for once my sister and I went to indulge in the bookshop. We were born bookworms. Since I was capable of reading, I have been developed a rooted love for books. Just like someone whose saliva flows when he sees food, we find the temptation of books almost irresistable. At about age four, I could make good use of my tree-climbing skills to scramble up my parents' cupboard and search for books. Our discovery was a disappointing story book, quite thick, though. We kept reading days after days, and when we finished, we turned to the prologue and reread all over again. At that time I was too familiar with the plots that I could memorise some pieces word by word.
I also put a science FAQ book in my treasure trove. The book have been reread so many times that that bookspine was broken. My mother had to sew the book pages together like sewing clothes. Of course we were reluctant to throw any books away, books were not cheap at that time. For now, one of my most regrettable things was that I sold two collections of detective stories in a random flea market for eight RMB to buy snacks and drinks. We found those rotten-to-the-core stories unattractive. But later, we almost went mad to procure them.
Back to the book store. Lingering in a book store is such an indulgence for us that when our parents went shopping in some exclusive mansions, we invariably argued for a place in a book store. We could kneel there reading for hours while they went on bargain-hunting or drolling in front of Armarni Suit, Jeans West, Ballide, etc, etc. The longer they lingered, the merrier we became. When they finally came to fetch us, we were always in a state of glueing to the pages. It took them much trouble to break the adhesion.
Indeed, a book store is the ultimate "getaway" for us. Just imagine losing yourself in the pages! It is better escapade from reality than eye-soring computer games.
And it makes you "feel something" when you are in some place like Kinokuniya.
"Next station, Orchard!"
We began to barge our way towards the door.
"Doors opening, please mind the platform gap."
We merrily alighted and swam forward with the human tide. Almost all well-heeled people in the train poured out like scurrying ants, and we found ourselves involuntorily pushed towards the outlet leading to the Orchard Road.
Fine. That was where we were going.
Unfortunately, we went in the wrong direction towards Shaw Centre which led us away from Ngee Ann City. We realised our mistake at the end of the Orchard Road( so blunt!) and made a U-turn before merrily walking up again.
We entered Ngee Ann City through the glass door of Takashimaya and went headlong to the escalator which took us to the book store in no time. The next three hours, we were swimming in it with other trouts, eels, salmons and octupuses before finally paying for our treasure at the counter. It was soothing to see our carefully chosen books being wrapped for us in a delicate manner. It was great to purchase in such a classy place.
To spice up our date, we went to Wisma Atria to have dinner. The top-level Foodrepublic was nicely decorated to fit the Yuletide ambience. Sitting in a quiet corner with someone special is a real treat, a real enjoyment of solitude away from civilasation.
And don't forget, Christmas light-up is on now:)
I want to say "Hi" to Father Christmas!
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Bugis
It is a wondrous feeling of knowing where to go but having no inkling on your exact destination. Our yesterday's expedition was just wondrous enough to prove that.
The peaceful morning was broken when an unfamiliar phone call informed me that the suitcase I was expecting had been left at Oxford Hotel. It gave me the number of the hotel, which marked the beginning of my adventure.
The suitcase had passed numerous check points and had been sleeping and snorting in a luggage airplane for several uncomfortable hours before finally landed in Singapore. However, it was not easy for it to get to its resting place. Almost weeks before, I was informed of its existence and went through a marathon battle so as to conceptualise its contents. After corresponding with my dear mother who compiled the "red-dated letter" indicating the contents of the luggage, we were happily waiting for the arrival of our "goodie bag", from which we could draw sustenance.
The tracking down of the luggage began when I dialled the number of the Oxford Hotel. A friendly female receptionist answered the phone and was delighted to find my identity corresponding with the one expected. My first task was finished. Except fpr clarifying my identity to the unknown receptionist, I got the extra information that Oxford Hotel is situated on Queen Street, Bugis. This extra snippet spared me the trouble to search in the heavy, cumbersome street directory.
Bolstered by a surge of confidence, we began our expedition after a good, nice noon nap. The dark clouds began to amass as we hurried toward the busstop, and we scurried quickly like ants moving tidbits of food into their cave. With some foresight which later proved to be comfortingly necessary, I borrowed a long-handle umbrella from the office guard. Walking on the street with such a medieval-looking umbrella, we felt embarrasment began to settle in, but we kept ignoring passerby's inquisitive looks and held our heads high.
The arrival at Bugis was just as wondrous. Actually, I was not at all familiar with the peripheries. Having been there for only three times, I could only make out some basic facts like Victoria Street being perpendicular to Middle Street and that one MRT exit leading directly into the Bugis Junction. As for iconic buildings, I know there is a National Library and SGH(Singapore General Hospital) where I had my medical check-up one year ago, and that is how far my sketchy knowledge could manage to go.
My sister was a believer of her hunches, to which I reserved a grain of doubt. But I was sure she got lucky by following her "hunches" yesterday. To my amazement, she applied her hunches all the way and I was embarrassed to admit that the route she had chosen was the shortest route possible! Adding to the wondrous feeling, we also got the chance to mill around in the main streets of Bugis and had quite a satisfying sightseeing, of course, before we collected the heavy suitcase.
As for the suitcase, the collecting of it took almost less than three minutes. We were self-conscious enough to groom ourselves again before stepping into the hotel when we realised how home-like the place was. Due to the presence of a bunch of Chinese-dialect-speaking hotel dwellers, we found it almost a relaxing and pleasant experience to get into the seemingly formidable building. That dialect happened to be the kind which I had no difficulty understanding. This kind of home feeling greatly boosted my morale as I attempted to ask the receptionist. After showing my Ezlink Card, the male receptionist who dressed like a bartender delightfully handed me the suitcase after me signing a "receipt". We were all glad that the procedure could be such easy.
With all our might, we dragged the heavy suitcase back home. It might sound easy but was anything but easy. I still remember how I rushed through the zebra line pulling the luggage with the electronic sign beeping alarmingly; and my funny position when going down by an escalator with the wheels of the suitcase one level upon me. To make the whole thing more "wonderful", the rain began to slushing down when we arrived at Clementi. When the bus finally arrived, I clumsily hauled the luggage on board while my sister opening the medieval umbrella to shield me from the downpour.
However, we were not spared of the shower when we realised disappointedly that we had to walk over a flyover before getting into the comfort zone. And no need to mention, we were drenched at our backs as if flattening right down into the water like two pieces of leaves.
These were all very wondrous with great fun, weren't they? Provided that my sister and I had not had private time together for almost one week.
The peaceful morning was broken when an unfamiliar phone call informed me that the suitcase I was expecting had been left at Oxford Hotel. It gave me the number of the hotel, which marked the beginning of my adventure.
The suitcase had passed numerous check points and had been sleeping and snorting in a luggage airplane for several uncomfortable hours before finally landed in Singapore. However, it was not easy for it to get to its resting place. Almost weeks before, I was informed of its existence and went through a marathon battle so as to conceptualise its contents. After corresponding with my dear mother who compiled the "red-dated letter" indicating the contents of the luggage, we were happily waiting for the arrival of our "goodie bag", from which we could draw sustenance.
The tracking down of the luggage began when I dialled the number of the Oxford Hotel. A friendly female receptionist answered the phone and was delighted to find my identity corresponding with the one expected. My first task was finished. Except fpr clarifying my identity to the unknown receptionist, I got the extra information that Oxford Hotel is situated on Queen Street, Bugis. This extra snippet spared me the trouble to search in the heavy, cumbersome street directory.
Bolstered by a surge of confidence, we began our expedition after a good, nice noon nap. The dark clouds began to amass as we hurried toward the busstop, and we scurried quickly like ants moving tidbits of food into their cave. With some foresight which later proved to be comfortingly necessary, I borrowed a long-handle umbrella from the office guard. Walking on the street with such a medieval-looking umbrella, we felt embarrasment began to settle in, but we kept ignoring passerby's inquisitive looks and held our heads high.
The arrival at Bugis was just as wondrous. Actually, I was not at all familiar with the peripheries. Having been there for only three times, I could only make out some basic facts like Victoria Street being perpendicular to Middle Street and that one MRT exit leading directly into the Bugis Junction. As for iconic buildings, I know there is a National Library and SGH(Singapore General Hospital) where I had my medical check-up one year ago, and that is how far my sketchy knowledge could manage to go.
My sister was a believer of her hunches, to which I reserved a grain of doubt. But I was sure she got lucky by following her "hunches" yesterday. To my amazement, she applied her hunches all the way and I was embarrassed to admit that the route she had chosen was the shortest route possible! Adding to the wondrous feeling, we also got the chance to mill around in the main streets of Bugis and had quite a satisfying sightseeing, of course, before we collected the heavy suitcase.
As for the suitcase, the collecting of it took almost less than three minutes. We were self-conscious enough to groom ourselves again before stepping into the hotel when we realised how home-like the place was. Due to the presence of a bunch of Chinese-dialect-speaking hotel dwellers, we found it almost a relaxing and pleasant experience to get into the seemingly formidable building. That dialect happened to be the kind which I had no difficulty understanding. This kind of home feeling greatly boosted my morale as I attempted to ask the receptionist. After showing my Ezlink Card, the male receptionist who dressed like a bartender delightfully handed me the suitcase after me signing a "receipt". We were all glad that the procedure could be such easy.
With all our might, we dragged the heavy suitcase back home. It might sound easy but was anything but easy. I still remember how I rushed through the zebra line pulling the luggage with the electronic sign beeping alarmingly; and my funny position when going down by an escalator with the wheels of the suitcase one level upon me. To make the whole thing more "wonderful", the rain began to slushing down when we arrived at Clementi. When the bus finally arrived, I clumsily hauled the luggage on board while my sister opening the medieval umbrella to shield me from the downpour.
However, we were not spared of the shower when we realised disappointedly that we had to walk over a flyover before getting into the comfort zone. And no need to mention, we were drenched at our backs as if flattening right down into the water like two pieces of leaves.
These were all very wondrous with great fun, weren't they? Provided that my sister and I had not had private time together for almost one week.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Daniel Craig and 007
James Bond is back again!(drum hitting)
That's him!
I have been setting an eye on "Quantum of Solace" since Daniel Craig began to appear in the premieres of the new 007 sequel all over the world. Matching to my analytical nature, I have developed a deep interest in detective stories and spy movies since I was a little girl. I still remember how I got mesmerised in Conan series and Agatha Christie's books, stealing time to read them at nap-time, staying overlong in the toilet to finish a chapter, and having fervent discussions on the plots and characters. Invariably, sometimes I got too scared by the cruel actions of the villains and it was time for my mother to step in and console me by insisting that only minorities faced that kind of danger. In this way, my passion and fear for eerie vocations like detectives and spys grow at the same time.
When I was old enough to interpret movies, there came the Oscar award-winning blockbuster "Bodyguard" and then the seemingly endless series of 007 movies. My mother is a fan of Bond. I do not know exactly which actor she likes. At the time she introduced the omnipotent, observant and intelligent Bond to me, surely it was not Daniel Craig. According to the time, perhaps her hero was somewhere between Pierce Brosnan and Timothy Dalton, or even earlier, Roger Moore. I could not tell.
The first 007 movie I watched was the hot-to-the-core "Golden Eye" spearheaded by Pierce Brosnan. Intrigued by the stunts in the film, though I could not grasp the relationship between characters, I could definitely have a superb visual feast. Action scenes have always been one characteristic feature of Bond movies (I do not deny there are other iconic features), but beyond pure fighting and revenging, there are more witty and humorous elements in the series that keep audience engaged. Undoubtedly, "Quantum of Solace" is not an exception.
Following the plot of "Casino Royale" which I have not watched, the new sequel focuses on the revenges which are carried forward in double lines, James Bond's and Camillie's. The movie shows an array of characters which deepens the theme of the movie, including the feisty Camillie, the villainous Dominic Greene, the brave M16 agent Strawberry Field, the lusty exiled General Medrano and the retired agent Marthis. The destinies of these characters are entwined as the truth was gradually uncovered, increasing the complexity of the plot while stimulating people to ponder about it.
Another impressive bonus point of the film is showing two scenes with similar atmosphere craftily and simultaneously . In the beginning scene, when Bond was hunting down Mitchell, the exciting Palio di Siena(Italian horse race) was in progress. Similarly, when Bond disrupted the planning of Tierra Project by Quantum members, the Italian composer Puccini's tragedic opera reverberated in the hall, striking a superb effect. This "double line" strategy makes the movie even more classy and delicate, which I appreciate a lot.
Daniel at the premiere
With Co-star
With Wife
Greene with "flowers" =P
However, I have to admit that not everyone likes 007 movies, considering some violence scenes as well as the accusation that they have the potential to "pollute" young minds. Moreover, not everyone gets intoxicated by Daniel's greenish-blue eyes and his muscular body. Still, I believe that the beauty of arts, including films, exists even in its crudest forms, exists in the reality of our modern life. So, why not sit back, enjoy it and extract its essence while disposing of all the "pollutants" that might get you sick?
Get a ticket and enjoy your time with James Bond.
Yes! This is the one!
That's him!
I have been setting an eye on "Quantum of Solace" since Daniel Craig began to appear in the premieres of the new 007 sequel all over the world. Matching to my analytical nature, I have developed a deep interest in detective stories and spy movies since I was a little girl. I still remember how I got mesmerised in Conan series and Agatha Christie's books, stealing time to read them at nap-time, staying overlong in the toilet to finish a chapter, and having fervent discussions on the plots and characters. Invariably, sometimes I got too scared by the cruel actions of the villains and it was time for my mother to step in and console me by insisting that only minorities faced that kind of danger. In this way, my passion and fear for eerie vocations like detectives and spys grow at the same time.
When I was old enough to interpret movies, there came the Oscar award-winning blockbuster "Bodyguard" and then the seemingly endless series of 007 movies. My mother is a fan of Bond. I do not know exactly which actor she likes. At the time she introduced the omnipotent, observant and intelligent Bond to me, surely it was not Daniel Craig. According to the time, perhaps her hero was somewhere between Pierce Brosnan and Timothy Dalton, or even earlier, Roger Moore. I could not tell.
The first 007 movie I watched was the hot-to-the-core "Golden Eye" spearheaded by Pierce Brosnan. Intrigued by the stunts in the film, though I could not grasp the relationship between characters, I could definitely have a superb visual feast. Action scenes have always been one characteristic feature of Bond movies (I do not deny there are other iconic features), but beyond pure fighting and revenging, there are more witty and humorous elements in the series that keep audience engaged. Undoubtedly, "Quantum of Solace" is not an exception.
Following the plot of "Casino Royale" which I have not watched, the new sequel focuses on the revenges which are carried forward in double lines, James Bond's and Camillie's. The movie shows an array of characters which deepens the theme of the movie, including the feisty Camillie, the villainous Dominic Greene, the brave M16 agent Strawberry Field, the lusty exiled General Medrano and the retired agent Marthis. The destinies of these characters are entwined as the truth was gradually uncovered, increasing the complexity of the plot while stimulating people to ponder about it.
Another impressive bonus point of the film is showing two scenes with similar atmosphere craftily and simultaneously . In the beginning scene, when Bond was hunting down Mitchell, the exciting Palio di Siena(Italian horse race) was in progress. Similarly, when Bond disrupted the planning of Tierra Project by Quantum members, the Italian composer Puccini's tragedic opera reverberated in the hall, striking a superb effect. This "double line" strategy makes the movie even more classy and delicate, which I appreciate a lot.
Daniel at the premiere
With Co-star
With Wife
Greene with "flowers" =P
However, I have to admit that not everyone likes 007 movies, considering some violence scenes as well as the accusation that they have the potential to "pollute" young minds. Moreover, not everyone gets intoxicated by Daniel's greenish-blue eyes and his muscular body. Still, I believe that the beauty of arts, including films, exists even in its crudest forms, exists in the reality of our modern life. So, why not sit back, enjoy it and extract its essence while disposing of all the "pollutants" that might get you sick?
Get a ticket and enjoy your time with James Bond.
Yes! This is the one!
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Class Outing
Today we went for the most hilarious class outing I have ever had. The long-awaited night of revelry almost filled everyone with unspeakable joy and indulged us with the best party packages one can ever think of. Here I want to give a special thank-you to dear Valerie Tjota, my first desk-mate in Singapore and one of the most comical person in my class who cheers everyone up with her sanguine disposition while remaining calm and reasonable at critical moments:)
Thank you for giving us such a wonderful night, and thank your whole family for the planning as well as the organising work done for the success of the party. Finally, I want to thank all the participants of 302 who gathered together on this memorable night and made this gathering a hilarious one. I should appreciate the joy brought by you, shared with you, and treasured among us.
One of the highlights of the night is the arrival of Mrs Sabar. To pay a tribute for her and her family's participation, we lined up in two rows like trees by the lane to "greet" her in an unsuitably "formal" way. That really would have got the expected amusing effect were it not for some friends bursting into a laughter at the very moment Mrs Sabar rolled the prim into the pavillion.
Inside the prim was his latest-born son Shukry Auzan bin Sabarrudin with big bright eyes and a chubby face. I played with the baby for quite a while when his brother was engaged in the "fighting" with some boys. Shukry's brother looks adorable at the first sight with his charming big eyes and dolly, curly hair. The little charming boy also has an air of cunningness and childlike belligerence which makes people roll on their backs. While we were playing the hilarious game "charades", he made a big scene by wrestling with Xian Zheng and throwing one of his slippers onto the table. We were all impressed by his energy, though personally I doubt with a grain of guilt whether my sister and I used to "wrestle" like that when we were barely weaned. It is not hard to imagine the difficulty for my mum to handle two children at the same time while keeping an eye on our unexpected acts of "childhood cunningness".
Another highlight of the day was the game, "Passing the Castle". There is not much difference between the game and the traditional Chinese one called "hitting the drum and passing the flower", though the Chinese version sounds more romantic yet less exciting. Bee Leng actually made adjustments to the original game that every forfeit became unexpecting and funny at the same time. Some great minds even came up with the great idea of "painting graffiti on human faces with a lipstick". This made it more like a movie scene. The idea was endearing, though.
Finally came the time to celebrate Valerie's birthday. We all sang the birthday song for the birthday girl as she made a wish and blew the candles. The heartwarming moment climaxize the whole party as the lights went out and lit up again...
Still immersing in the mood of the hilarious party with some jovial friends, I wish our bonding will get stronger and stronger as time slips by, as years pass by and we finally come to a time to say goodbye, to recollect the old times, which will have become "old, good times".
Thank you for giving us such a wonderful night, and thank your whole family for the planning as well as the organising work done for the success of the party. Finally, I want to thank all the participants of 302 who gathered together on this memorable night and made this gathering a hilarious one. I should appreciate the joy brought by you, shared with you, and treasured among us.
One of the highlights of the night is the arrival of Mrs Sabar. To pay a tribute for her and her family's participation, we lined up in two rows like trees by the lane to "greet" her in an unsuitably "formal" way. That really would have got the expected amusing effect were it not for some friends bursting into a laughter at the very moment Mrs Sabar rolled the prim into the pavillion.
Inside the prim was his latest-born son Shukry Auzan bin Sabarrudin with big bright eyes and a chubby face. I played with the baby for quite a while when his brother was engaged in the "fighting" with some boys. Shukry's brother looks adorable at the first sight with his charming big eyes and dolly, curly hair. The little charming boy also has an air of cunningness and childlike belligerence which makes people roll on their backs. While we were playing the hilarious game "charades", he made a big scene by wrestling with Xian Zheng and throwing one of his slippers onto the table. We were all impressed by his energy, though personally I doubt with a grain of guilt whether my sister and I used to "wrestle" like that when we were barely weaned. It is not hard to imagine the difficulty for my mum to handle two children at the same time while keeping an eye on our unexpected acts of "childhood cunningness".
Another highlight of the day was the game, "Passing the Castle". There is not much difference between the game and the traditional Chinese one called "hitting the drum and passing the flower", though the Chinese version sounds more romantic yet less exciting. Bee Leng actually made adjustments to the original game that every forfeit became unexpecting and funny at the same time. Some great minds even came up with the great idea of "painting graffiti on human faces with a lipstick". This made it more like a movie scene. The idea was endearing, though.
Finally came the time to celebrate Valerie's birthday. We all sang the birthday song for the birthday girl as she made a wish and blew the candles. The heartwarming moment climaxize the whole party as the lights went out and lit up again...
Still immersing in the mood of the hilarious party with some jovial friends, I wish our bonding will get stronger and stronger as time slips by, as years pass by and we finally come to a time to say goodbye, to recollect the old times, which will have become "old, good times".
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Three Generations
School ended weeks ago, but there is no holiday mood at all. Being used to the old days of getting "cut" from school after receiving your report books, I am impressed at seeing school as vibrant as usual. Due to the upcoming Open House on 22nd November, uniform groups have been working a long way to make their parades impressive. Meanwhile, performing arts groups are training hard to hone their skills for the Cultural Potpourri in the last minute. Shouting orders from uniform group commandants, beautiful music from the Band, Guzheng and Chinese Orchestra, as well as the construction sounds from the back of our school all contribute to an active, vibrant and exciting atmosphere in the school holiday.
Almost all these elements seem to ensure the meaningfulness of this precious holiday. Standing at the watershed point before going into the graduation class, this holiday is the last buffer we could have before facing the challenges posed by a new year, a crucial academic year, the O Level year.
Today is the last day of O Level examinations for our seniors. Because I had CCA training early in the morning, I arrived at the school gate at 8:30. Unexpectedly, I was stopped by the security guard. O Level was in progress, so we were only supposed to wait for the ending bell to ring, which emanated the beginning of my CCA training, and the end of the O Level marathon for my seniors.
It was a critical moment. Standing at the school gate, facing the iron bars which set us into two different moods, I got a subtle and sweet-bitter feeling that we were seperated in two different worlds. Perhaps they were racking their head for the last essay question when I walked upon the slope towards school along my daily route; perhaps they were letting out a sigh of relieve after putting the last full stop when I set my foot out of my familiar RB0302; perhaps they were checking their answers with adrenalin still pumping down while I put my index finger on the fingerprint scanner...
And my juniors, they were having their Bridging Course, oblivious of the up-and-down feelings of those examtakers. Exams seem a too faraway thing from them, but seem so near at the same time, awaiting them to step into the endless whirl of real excitement and anxiety. They have that kind of faces which lead you back into the time tunnel, those faces shining with the glow of dreams and aspiration, those faces written with determination and endurance, those faces smiling at us in an endearing way, and those faces which make one want to explore more about them, but have to stop and admire involuntarily from distance.
A picture of "three generations" came into my mind: on an expansive field which is impossible to trace its ends and boundaries, walking a man on a grass lane. Shuffling slowly beside him is his father, and on his shoulders is the son. They walk along together, slowly, carefully and firmly, against the expansive greenery of the field. In front of them, there is a golden sun dropping under the horizon. And upon that is the sky, supported by the man's bent back, his father's hunchback and the son's strong arms curving lovingly around his father's neck.
In this holiday, the three generations are to be parted, and heading towards their future on different tracks. The "old" are leaving while the "young" come to replenish. We, stuck in the middle, are the ones who are going to arch up the sky, for the son, and for the grandfather.
It is a holiday to start from a blank sheet of paper, a holiday to continue the long journey, and a holiday to relish the sweetness of the fruit.
A holiday to plow, a holiday to toil, and a holiday to gain...
We three generations~~~
Almost all these elements seem to ensure the meaningfulness of this precious holiday. Standing at the watershed point before going into the graduation class, this holiday is the last buffer we could have before facing the challenges posed by a new year, a crucial academic year, the O Level year.
Today is the last day of O Level examinations for our seniors. Because I had CCA training early in the morning, I arrived at the school gate at 8:30. Unexpectedly, I was stopped by the security guard. O Level was in progress, so we were only supposed to wait for the ending bell to ring, which emanated the beginning of my CCA training, and the end of the O Level marathon for my seniors.
It was a critical moment. Standing at the school gate, facing the iron bars which set us into two different moods, I got a subtle and sweet-bitter feeling that we were seperated in two different worlds. Perhaps they were racking their head for the last essay question when I walked upon the slope towards school along my daily route; perhaps they were letting out a sigh of relieve after putting the last full stop when I set my foot out of my familiar RB0302; perhaps they were checking their answers with adrenalin still pumping down while I put my index finger on the fingerprint scanner...
And my juniors, they were having their Bridging Course, oblivious of the up-and-down feelings of those examtakers. Exams seem a too faraway thing from them, but seem so near at the same time, awaiting them to step into the endless whirl of real excitement and anxiety. They have that kind of faces which lead you back into the time tunnel, those faces shining with the glow of dreams and aspiration, those faces written with determination and endurance, those faces smiling at us in an endearing way, and those faces which make one want to explore more about them, but have to stop and admire involuntarily from distance.
A picture of "three generations" came into my mind: on an expansive field which is impossible to trace its ends and boundaries, walking a man on a grass lane. Shuffling slowly beside him is his father, and on his shoulders is the son. They walk along together, slowly, carefully and firmly, against the expansive greenery of the field. In front of them, there is a golden sun dropping under the horizon. And upon that is the sky, supported by the man's bent back, his father's hunchback and the son's strong arms curving lovingly around his father's neck.
In this holiday, the three generations are to be parted, and heading towards their future on different tracks. The "old" are leaving while the "young" come to replenish. We, stuck in the middle, are the ones who are going to arch up the sky, for the son, and for the grandfather.
It is a holiday to start from a blank sheet of paper, a holiday to continue the long journey, and a holiday to relish the sweetness of the fruit.
A holiday to plow, a holiday to toil, and a holiday to gain...
We three generations~~~
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
The Tea House on Mulberry Street
This is a simple, cosy evening, though I still feel a little dizzy and tipsy after the whole day's hardwork. It was not a particularly exhausting day, nor did I drink anything alcoholic, but I feel certain heaviness in my head, perhaps I just catch a cold. However, I am very grateful that one person can erase all my heaviness in head and let me indulge in a peaceful night reading from a delightful paperback in my hands.
The person is Sharon Owens and the book is "The Tea House on Mulberry Street".
A book with a name like that never seems appealing to anyone. In fact, I was only attracted by its delicate cover with mouth-watering cherry cheesecake, added with a teapot with carved clovers as well as a pair of delicate tea cups. This kind of cover is extremely soothing and warming in a winter night, lightening up your imagination of a hot cup of cappuccino lying on a tea-house table with a dish of chargrilled chicken strips and a bowl of carrot and chestnut soup with cream and croutons by its side... I forgot there is no winter here, only dry and wet seasons with south-east monsoons come and go...Back to track, what attracts me more is that the book is a NO.1 Irish Bestseller bearing high accolades from Cecelia Ahern, whose blockbuster brainchild was "PS, I Love You".
Though I used to snub those books labelled "bestseller", I found this one extremely curiosity-piqueing. Is it something like Chinese writter Lao She's Teahouse? Or is it beautifully written in a modern way? Does it show a kaleidoscope of people in a teahouse, while revealing some hidden secrets in the fast-spinning society? Or something really Irish? I did not hesitate to read it.
And it is satisfyingly great, with stories entwined with each other, intersecting, twisting, developing into a multi-layer tapestry. All is well that ends well, but it is not the kind of Hollywood ending which makes tragedy lovers moan over and over. It is a light sitcom without blatant laughters, yet it indeed makes it hard for one to restrain some heart-felt chuckles.
All is well that ends well. Everyone got what they deserved, bless or punishment.
After flipping to the last page of this light comedy, I can almost smell the flagrance of cherry cheesecake lingering in our bedroom, which is dimly lit by a bedside-lamp, as my mind drifting out into the tea house on Mulberry Street.
Cheers for Penny and Daniel who own the tea house, and their son Danny!
The person is Sharon Owens and the book is "The Tea House on Mulberry Street".
A book with a name like that never seems appealing to anyone. In fact, I was only attracted by its delicate cover with mouth-watering cherry cheesecake, added with a teapot with carved clovers as well as a pair of delicate tea cups. This kind of cover is extremely soothing and warming in a winter night, lightening up your imagination of a hot cup of cappuccino lying on a tea-house table with a dish of chargrilled chicken strips and a bowl of carrot and chestnut soup with cream and croutons by its side... I forgot there is no winter here, only dry and wet seasons with south-east monsoons come and go...Back to track, what attracts me more is that the book is a NO.1 Irish Bestseller bearing high accolades from Cecelia Ahern, whose blockbuster brainchild was "PS, I Love You".
Though I used to snub those books labelled "bestseller", I found this one extremely curiosity-piqueing. Is it something like Chinese writter Lao She's Teahouse? Or is it beautifully written in a modern way? Does it show a kaleidoscope of people in a teahouse, while revealing some hidden secrets in the fast-spinning society? Or something really Irish? I did not hesitate to read it.
And it is satisfyingly great, with stories entwined with each other, intersecting, twisting, developing into a multi-layer tapestry. All is well that ends well, but it is not the kind of Hollywood ending which makes tragedy lovers moan over and over. It is a light sitcom without blatant laughters, yet it indeed makes it hard for one to restrain some heart-felt chuckles.
All is well that ends well. Everyone got what they deserved, bless or punishment.
After flipping to the last page of this light comedy, I can almost smell the flagrance of cherry cheesecake lingering in our bedroom, which is dimly lit by a bedside-lamp, as my mind drifting out into the tea house on Mulberry Street.
Cheers for Penny and Daniel who own the tea house, and their son Danny!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
RSS Feed (xml)
