living an ordinary life

(another old old piece i dug out.)

I've just realized, when I sit down to write this piece, that I shall feel grateful to have the luxury speculating on such things as the meaning of life. Life is not necessarily beautiful, sweet, satisfying and promising; in fact, it can be disappointing, ugly, cruel and devastating. If the only unhappiness grows from one's insatiable desire to have more or to beat all, well, that person belongs to a small percentage of lucky human beings. So, if anything, we shall always remember that life is frail and we shall always cherish what we have, right here and right now.

That said, what I want to lay out is my own simplistic view on living a meaningful life. It is certainly not what it is all about and it is not all my original ideas; it is what I consider or accept as important and untradable, thus inviting everybody to lay out his own perspectives.

-Life is a journey of self discovery and self acceptance. It is a miracle to have life at all; it is absolutely precious that each of us is an absolutely distinguishable individual. During the lifetime, we learn to identify and appreciate our uniqueness and bring out the best of it to the world. We also learn to accept own weakness and limitations. Each individual should not normally sacrifice himself for lofty goals.

-Life is about loving and caring. Family (nuclear and extended) is the extension or part of ourselves. Sharing and enjoying as much time together is the most fulfilling thing in the world. It would be a failure to achieve anything at the expense of loved ones. It would be regrettable not knowing the joy of a loving family.

Besides family, friendship is the most valuable thing one owns. It appears that we could choose our friends, but that is just a relative term (as compared to family). More often than not, friends are also bound by love or affection and not by criteria. It is particularly cherishable that of all the people in the world, we would meet and develop friendship with only those special few.

-Life is about prioritizing ordinary things. We can have a lot of fun in life without much hard work: reading a book, having a hobby, going to a movie, smelling a flower, "opening that special bottle of wine" (borrowed from WSJ)... Most often we busy ourselves with "important goals" and ignore such "trivials". Take a moment to think and we may realize that these seemingly ordinary things bring true joy and peace of mind. They are the essence of a quality life.

-Life is about learning and experiencing. One amazing thing in life is that the more we learn, the more we have to learn. There are always things we have just discovered and there are always things we shall know more about. Learning keeps us busy, entertained and fulfilled. Learning also makes us humble and open-minded. Life is a journey, one wants to experience and learn as much as one can.

-Where then are glory, fame and wealth. It takes natural gifts, hardworking and luck to succeed in whatever one's dream is. And it is a lifetime effort (when is last time we feel completely vindicated and satisfied?). The rational way to reach there is to live a well and balanced life, then to try hard, and finally to hope for the best. Trading one thing for another comes with a price. Paying too dearly often buys disappointment and regret.

Life seems this simple.

what to read into/out of a book

(when writers push the limit, reading a novel is no longer a simple leisure activity. i didn't know about this until told recently but found a little piece i wrote awhile ago fit comfortably into this "new way" of reading. still, i am not so sure. what is so hard that can not be brought forth by simple description?)

Lolita
by Vladimir Nabokov

"Lolita" was a story about one of the most hideous desires, or, lusts of man - a middle-aged guy's infatuation with a twelve-year-old girl - a behavior moralistically hard to defend even if it could be understood from a biological point of view. Yet, the book was written in a rather scornful and hilarious way, which more or less lightened the seriousness and nastiness of what it was really babbling about. The narrator/offender (a Mr. Humbert Humbert, intersting name, isn't it?) came across as an extremely self-conscious, self-pity and self-deprecating soul, again lessening one's disgust for his criminal or stealthy activities. Thus, the book was a near beautification of a not-oh-so-glamous desire.

It probably revealed more about the writer, an obviously sophisticated person sensitive to and pondering on complex human emotions and inner cravings. He was also apparently keen on languages, constantly and joyfully playing with words, fun yet sometimes disengaging.

All in all, reading this book was an interesting and curious experience: the exotic story, the unfamiliar emotion, the unexpected development and the somewhat perceivable depth.

A scene by the pond

(this was written as a "payback" to red heron, the humorous/low-key cartoonist on CND. below was the cartoon named after "passerby". not able to come up with anything to match its cuteness and naughtiness, i wrote this poem to lavish my praise, but also hid a little trick of my own between the lines. with the riddle being too obscure to discern, the poem was perceived by others as outright flattering. and i had had SOME explanation to do. ;-)

A scene by the pond

Beyond the Walden Pond
Moved in a lad so handsome
Delicate was his shadow and
The name Red Heron

Excitement in the tranquil water
Stealthy glances darted over
His lowered head
And that exquisite color

"Rather delighted to meet you"
Chirped Grand O'l Cardinal
Nearby lingered Little Chickadee
So jovial Blue Jay sighed and flew

A beloved pond
Up down danced Red Heron

**it's also a riddle and here is the clue:

odd is one
even not two
what rhymes tree?
take with you

stunned by a clockwork orange

a book by Anthony Burgess

having reading enough fictions through the years, i was taken by surprise to find one so foreign: the story, the style and, of course, the language. i was almost certain that i wouldn't like it after finishing the 1st of the 3 parts. yet, the story moved on with intriguing plots and i slowly realized its power and the very strong messages....

clockwork orange is a well written book about the interplay of human nature, the evil side mostly, and social engineering, the futile and cruel kinds. the main character (narrator) was carefully developed, being both distinct and believable. i don't like the strange language, however - a made-up one by mixing words from mainly Russian and some German, making the reading unpleasant. on the other hand, though, the story was not meant for pleasure.

until very recently (in eighties) the US edition didn't publish the last chapter. amazingly, the message was almost completely altered by such a seemly slight omission. both appeared to be logical ends to the story. my sympathy goes to the author, however, who lamented about the lost beauty of the original perfect design of chapters and the meaning of the total chapter number, besides the loss of his own understanding of juvenile development.

When I think of him

(Feifei writes traditional-style Chinese poems. Abundantly and elegantly. He seems to be able to bring about the beauty of traditional poems without apparent effort, the only one I've known or appreciated with such skill, even though he is also one not adhering to the particular poetic rules. So I call him "natural". And he is such a wonderful, passionate and fun-loving person. He also shows very distinctive characteristics of the people of my hometown, far away and long forgotten by me. So impressed, I even wrote two pieces of my own, just to praise him. Laughable, I know, for a non-poet to even entertain such an impulse. Well.)

When I think of him

I smile
When I think of him,
Regally grand and worldly loyal,
That is him.

I frown
When I think of him,
Vigorously naughty and tirelessly buzzy,
What can you do?
With him.

I dismiss
When I think of him,
Fires burn and desires abound,
How is that Budda?
Within him.

I marvel
When I think of him,
Flowers blossom'd and stars shone,
Poetry is him.

Poetry is him.

He says goodbye

When we meet he says goodbye
Pleasant, that's his smile:
Mountains there are sky high
And clouds and the Moon nearby

I, ever the ignorant
Desperately linger the moment:
It is nature
That the end is so inevitable,
What goodness
To take an early departure

Look into his fleeting heart
Cheerfully, he replies:
What for,
But nothingness
The fish, the dream and the butterfly

So we meet
And we say goodbye

Dealing with failure

There are people in this world who are exceedingly successful in their professions, those with names like Micheal Jordan or Tiger Woods. Then, there are the rest of us who must carry one kind of disappointment or another. While it is easy to say that there is a lot more beyond work, the inability to achieve the high potential one perceives of self is one major source of chronic frustration in life. Some would sacrifice anything for that one elusive goal; others would be constantly distracted from enjoying "ordinary" things; Still others would ultimately give up but feel demoralized and belittled.

There are enough good reasons for paying so much attention to this one aspect of life. We need vindication for our self-worthiness; professional success is an easy way to gauge. We need social acceptance; professional success is a ready yardstick to measure us up. We also see how glamous those successful people are presented and, feeling our own intellectual and creative potential, can easily identify ourselves being as well qualified.

The pain of failure is deep and cyclical. Using the basketball analogy, the also-ran team star starts the season with high promise and confidence, goes through the lengthy season with reasonable success and is defeated by Michael. Next year, he summarizes mistakes made in the previous season, improves himself and doubles his effort. Well, he gets crushed again by Michael. Year in and year out, circumstances change but the result does not; it only gets more painful and frustrating. It does not help that one would soon realize that the biological clock is ticking mercilessly. It feels even worse that the world is indeed full of Michaels who seem to have what we really want.

There are ways to deal with feelings of faillure. We learn to have a more balanced perspective towards life; we try not to compare one-dimensionally with others; and we can certainly keep trying and pin our hope to still another season. What I want to add in this particular piece is a few practical and specific points methods one can use to offset the unplesantness of defeat (obviously I know what I am talking about :)

First of all, failure is not something one can overcome once and for all. It may feel like "if only I could do this, accomplish that" at any point, it is always part of the evolving life for the majority of us. Even for those very successful, there are always higher hurdles to go over. For a goldless athlete (now that it is the Olympic time), having one sounds like the ultimate; but it is not rare to find agony in someone who fails to defend something or measure up historically. In other words, expectation matters when it comes to the definition of failure for a given individual. Since we collectively think very highly of ourselves, we have got to live with failure just as we live with our shadow.

It may not even be all bad- failure certainly makes us more humble and humane, see life in a more vulnerable light and therefore remember to appreciate it as it is, now and then.

Usually failure is not a result of lack of effort although instinctively doubling one's effort is what most of us do. Effort can be better used in having a balanced life "effortlessly". This is not just a healthy perspective; it is quite practical. Having least to sacrifice in order to achieve what we perceive as important helps to reduce anxiety and to focus on the task at hand. Sacrificing one's life, which does make one feel noble, martyr and entittled (of reward), could as easily dampen the glory or make the next round of failure ever more painful. So the paradoxic conclusion here is, if we cannot have something we really want, we should double our effort to achieve everything else no matter how insignificant and easy they seem to be.

Although we use our career achievements to prove something to ourselves or others, often what we really care is achievements but not the career. The lack of respect and fondness towards what we do makes the daily routine painful if success does not come early, easy and frequently. We also tend to chase glorified careers, which is all well except when the societal attention shifts, which happens ever more frequently. So while setting up our ambitious goals, it is important to figure out what we really enjoy doing or at least learn to like what we do.

Ultimately though, one just has to bite the bullets, be strong enough to like oneself even without glory; to seek satisfaction from effort and experience even without success. In fact shrugging off disappointment sometimes is all it takes to feel good again since emotions, even painful ones, do wear off with time. So the shadow may not go away, we can still live a life of richness and fulfillment.

Passion, Knowledge and Creativity - I mean "Tolkien"

JRR Tolkien: Author of the Century by Tom Shippey

I had always been fascinated by works I perceive as “creative” but puzzled by how creativity works. Reading Tokien’s biography provided some clues.

It turned out creativity is not necessarily a separate untouchable innate trait some possess (and the rest of us don’t), but can be trackable and tedious. From what I could tell, Tolkien’s Ring was born out of passion and knowledge. His love for his culture and people, his longing for a time long gone and his profound religious belief. And he was uniquely equipped to express such, with his unmatchable knowledge of the old Celtic and Nordic mythology/literature, his mastering of the language and his obsession with details. Otherwise, the way he wrote Ring was rather “unremarkable” and often painful: small pieces here and there, constant writing and rewriting, not knowing how to proceed or how to end. And it dragged on and on through the years....

So creativity could be this simple. If you really really want to do something and you are pretty good at it, you might be a genius, too. J

Brokeback Mountain

watched last Friday. i've been haunted by the movie since. it took me awhile figure out why though - it had moved me beyond a love story, even beyond a "gay love" story.

i recognize it as an elegent illustration of the kind of taboo'ed human desire. suddenly it happens and one finds himself trapped in a no no situation - not of his own design but he can't escape nonetheless. the heart burns with desperation and the mind tries to quench the fire desperately. slowly he dies, or at least the vital part of him. ultimate sadness is this self-censoring - that he does not allow it, either, as if he has any control.

it speaks the tragedy of human existence, the contradiction of his desires and the futility of his efforts. brokeback is heart breakingly good.

Words are not created equal

(talk about word play. the wonder is that one can enjoy it even with limited commanding of a second language. )

Well, I don't know about men, but words are certainly not created equal.

Some are ugly and others pretty; some are thoughtful and others playful; some are avoided and others adored.

I have my own list of favorites, the first being "certainly". I have certainly used it more often than its "fair" share; yet each time, it still brings me joy and delight, for its gentle and casual emphasis on certainty.

I also enjoy its cousin "certain", for though it is "certain", of certain uses, it conveys a subtle sense of, well, uncertainty.

So, words are not created equal. For that, I am certain.

Me, watching games

(it has been a while since i was really into sports. enjoyed the 4 NFL playoff games last weekend and remembered this old piece i wrote.)

I started to watch sports while staying in Oregon for a short period of time. It was approaching the NBA playoff. The Portland Trailblazers, the only sports team of the whole state, were doing well and Oregonians went wild with high expectations. I was infected and followed the games with the kind of feverish emotion one would have when encountering some new and exciting for the first time (that year, Michael Jordan won his first NBA championship). That emotion eventually faded away but I have learned one sports after another and could pass as a regular knowledgeable fan if not examined too closely.

There are always higher calls for athletic excellence and sports competition: national honor, ethnical pride and various moral causes. What touch me most, though, are simply the games and the individuals who play them. I enjoy football most when the two teams kick off and bump into each other with power and determination - the only thing I like which resembles a battle. I love basketball for its fluidity and elegance. Sports played on grass convey a sense of poetic beauty; those with long history carry the riches of culture; and summer games amplify the noises and restlessness only summer possesses.... One can also easily get caught up by the drama: an unexpected triumph over the powerful or a final shower of success for the long drought. I still remember my pure joy and satisfaction when Hollyfield beat Tyson (twice).

I also watch the players (in a broad sense). With my admiration for brilliance and individualism, I am particularly tolerant of those with odd yet distinguished personalities. Dennis Rodman brings about a kind of craziness and absurdity. Sam Cassell is super ugly yet equally bright. Bill Parcell abondons his team sooner than he adopts new ones, but isn't he masterful? And genius is not just found in the rank of Tiger Woods. I sighed with resignation when I read about Vince Carter saying that he saw the net become wider and wider with each 3-pointer he had made - wish I had that kind of vision for just once!

Talking about reading, I actually "watch" most of the sports events in newspapers, or nowadays on internet. A game in writing is in itself a new game from the one in motion, enriched by literary merits, personal perspectives and retrospectives. Besides, I get to choose to read only the games which go my way and skip altogether those which annoy me. Years have gone by but I still have the NYT sections covering the two Cowboy Superbowl championships.

For someone who rarely lifts a finger other than doing daily chores and who does not have much athletic skills whatsoever, I have been delighted constantly by those who do. And I appreciate it (6/2/01).

what clicks

(poetry to me is often a word play - many of my mumblings are inspired by words or word games. this one was about Maya, a natural but exotic poet, but i did it by using all "ick"es that i could find.)

One Queen (to rule them all)

never ever flicking
she is always clicking

rather good at kicking
she is not for a picking

disdainful of nicking
she being expert of licking

cast into tricking
she can also be sticking

no afraid of pricking
she has it bricking

AND she is -
eternally ticking
(or is that 72-hourly? ;-)

Three dishes and one

(another adaptation plus "translation")

I have eaten
the two yolks
that were on
chives;
And the egg whites
that were on
cabbages;
And the grounded
egg whites with chives

and which
you were probably
saving
for lunch

Forgive me
but they were delicious
so salty
and so fresh

I did leave you
(however)
the two egg shells
that were on water.

两个黄鹂鸣翠柳，（韭菜上俩鸡蛋黄）
一行白鹭上青天。（一片菜叶上铺一行切成片的蛋白）
窗含西岭千秋雪，（四根韭菜围一框，里面洒点碎蛋白）
门泊东吴万里船。（清汤上浮两蛋壳 - by Searain)

This is just to say

by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

Feeling

(Not knowing what to do with this blog, I seemed to be turning it into a collection of my poems, some original and others adapted. More or less. Here is another one I wrote awhile ago. )

So anyway--
I encounter this feeling
I can not say.
Lonely it is not,
Loss, that's too heavy.

Absent in others'eyes,
Oblivious in my own mind.
I just catch a glimpse,
And it's followed the shadow of mine.

As if the season of fall
With its colors and all
It graces my window--
(It's strikingly beautiful!)
And gone,
It's not mine after-all.

Count my blessings as I might,
lovely path awaits in sight.
So I--
I just touch the void
In the stillness
Of night.

Copying Tolkien

(contents based on a discussion I initiated on a forum):

Said the Poet from a rainy day: 'it is ever so with the god: proud and cruel - a mere reflection of human beings, I reckon.'

'Yet seldom does he fail to impress upon humans,' said the Passerby. 'And that will lie in the dust and rot to spring up again in times and places unlooked-for. The BELIEF in god will outlast us, my Poet.'

'And yet come to naught in the end but not-there-yets, I guess.' said the Poet.

'To that we mortals know not the answer.' said the Passerby.

This is what Tolkien had said:

said Gimli: 'it is ever so with the things that Men begin: there is a frost in Spring, or a blight in Summer, and they fail of their promise.'

'Yet seldom do they fail fo their seeds,' said Legolas. 'And that will lie in the dust and rot to spring up again in times and places unlooked-for. The deeds of Men will outlast us, Gimli.'

'And yet come to naught in the end but might-have-beens, I guess.' said the Dwarf.

'To that the Elves know not the answer.' said Legolas.

Dandelions

(adapted from a poem of same title. couldn't find the original anymore, which is a more upbeating kind of style. you can tell: the 3rd stanza was mostly lifted from it. i preferred a playful and slightly different perspective. finally, replaced the 3rd stanza, Dandelions. :-)

Mommy tends to her orchids,
I look after these dandelions.

Called nothing but weeds -
I wonder why,
Year after year,
They are so beautiful to me.

Grow in rocky soil
Without water or light.
Between pavement cracks
Dandelions they thrive.

I love all flowers anyway,
But this one only
I can blow away -

Sending their kids through the world,
Oh, little dandelions!

Red sox poems

I had better "luck" with the Red Sox last year when they were down 0:3 against Yankees. And I got to write the more cheerful 2nd poem.

a Red Sox Fan

Out of the night
Morning is near -
ly in sight
Unconquerable is my Red Sox
DREAM, and
Yankees sucks

Insurmountable is the obstacle
of own making
Unquenchable is the desire
set on fire
Of desperation

Such is miracle


Red Sox, Red Moon

Now we know
What it takes -

Not eighty-six years
Nor effort and tears -

But a lunar eclipse
To reverse the Curse
Of Bambino

That Wednesday night
When the Moon glided
Through the Earth's shadow

At that moment
Doug Mientkiewicz caught the Ball
And Sox won
In a vivid shade of red

Now we know

After the 3rd game, World series 2005

It was late into the night yesterday
Silently sat I watch them play
I foresaw an unpleasant ending
After that dreadful 5th inning
Crawling deeper into the sofa, yet, I stay

Beyond the diamond-shaped field
A vast land of old revealed
It once embraced a young kid from afar
Protected her through her tumblings
Like a shield

Amid the missed hits and aborted runs
I recognized my grand old town
And its stumbling for the glory
Of recognition
Faithfully, I offered my pray
And a reflection

followed by my friend fourteen

Spoonerism

Amid the hissed mits
You passed Cindy witty
Wish thee wed and right
Blessed by the fine shield

tree, o, tree

Tree, Oh, Tree

I am an old tree and I live up a hill,
And I have a precious little wife who stands by me still;
And we thrive in autumn when the woods are gold,
And look forward to the days when all is cold.

We both have sturdy trunks, wrapped in coats of ivy,
I do look nice in mine, but I admire hers with envy;
Our branches are lifting, up to the sky so bright,
And mine can always hold hers, in the darkest of the night.

Come squirrels and children too! We are here for you to hang out,
And grasses to lie down and a broken house to scout;
Remembrance of past things, is recorded in our annual rings,
Yet time never makes your face so young, as our leaves in spring.

(picture by Yulushanren)

fading away

for a long while, i had been puzzled by the story of elves in "the lord of the rings". i kept wondering why elves, as immortal and powerful as they were, would disappear and leave the world to humans alone? why couldn't they simply hang around the forests and sing their beautiful songs for ever and ever?

i started to frequent a forum a few years ago. right after Sept.11. i have since been visiting the same site almost daily and written numerous posts/articles. there i have made many good friends and met some really amazing people. all in all, it is a wonderland like nothing else, a place i could dwell forever. so i thought.

one by one, however, "old" fellows stop talking and say farewell; day after day, new folks join in, fresh with excitement. the forum is striving, but with a slightly different crowd each day. slowly i've come to the realization that human beings are not capable of sustaining their feelings/interests endlessly, not even the most obessive kind in nature. sooner or later, the time will come that one has to go. i am still enjoying the forum fine; but i, too, have noticed that, chatty as i am, i do not always have something to say or have to say something....

so forever is not life, not even virtually. not just by death. life zooms in and it fades away. and those fairy elves? they wanted to leave.

Hello

I am often impressed by my little one, who seems to have what I would call a creative mind.

He wrote this little poem to comfort his elder brother, who just had a bad fall and broken his chin. We were vacationing in Bahamas. He was seven.

Moon

Once I ate the sun
Once I ate the moon
If I ate the moon with a fork
I would eat the sun with a spoon
It did taste good
Make your cut
Feel good, you
Should, you should