練習語法，哈哈

競爭是一種最普遍的現象。不管人們的地位或者他們的年齡，大家都會受到競爭的影響。競爭的確控制我們生活所有的方面：高中生天天追著好成績，超級大國為了自然資源打仗，甚至於明德學生在食堂裏搶好吃的菜也是一種競爭。世界上的人越來越多，競爭只會變得更殘酷。有些人認為競爭是公平社會最重要的特性，但是競爭可能就是社會貧富不均的原因之一。

賽跑的時候，如果跑步者跑的距離都是不一樣的，當然是不公平的情況。現代社會制度跟這種不公平的賽跑一樣：有些人必須跑又長又辛苦的距離，別人可以座上汽車，把距離縮短。有些人有很多朋友在旁邊一直鼓勵他們繼續跑，但是更多人摔倒的時候身邊一個朋友都沒有。競爭只會讓一個已經不公平的社會變更不公平。
地位跟學問的關係說明這個現象。有財富的人有能力把他們的孩子送去質量最好的私立學校，聘請私人家教，加上捐很多錢給大學。這種方法會讓富人保證孩子和財富的未來。比較窮的高中生，不管他們有多聰明，沒有辦法跟這些有錢人們比。有錢人保護他們的財富和地位是很容易的事情，但是窮人把他們的情況改成比較好的是非常不容易的。
所謂的“美國夢”就是大家有一樣的希望，一樣的機會，和一樣的資源的社會制度。許多美國人和移民還相信美國夢，說明他們又天真又理想化的態度。有這種樂觀的態度其實製造了一些壞處。其中的壞處就是人們會比較不在乎別人，因為美國夢暗示失敗者有能力自己幫住自己。把失敗者的責任交給表面上很公平的社會制度其實阻礙社會的進步。公平的競爭要求公平的基礎。因為社會已經不太公平，人們的態度也不能太公平：他們應該對地位低一點的人比較寬容，讓他們追上富人。
競爭是現代社會去不掉的現象。如果大家互相關心，讓社會一步一步的變得比較公平，以後競爭不會造成那麼多不公平的痛苦。

a pole-like post: first semester of studio art in review

autumnal salute: some squashes in vine charcoal

three objects, loosely linked by the glasses and the source

young Mama, seen through a "Vaseline screen"

Self is always skewed...

grumpy cat, Lucian Freud edition

final: messy chalk pastels yield midget pianist

the last critique! How beautifully each one turned out :)

Gould Medal for Glenn

Glenn Gould’s 1955 rendition of the Goldberg Variations still sets the standard.
CULTURE / NOVEMBER 17, 2014 ISSUE / BY GLORIA BRECK

Let he who is without sin cast the first stone. Likewise, let he who has perfected the Goldberg Variations critique Glenn Gould’s. The variations have become, according to pianist-writer Jeremy Denk, “a trendy bar that (infuriatingly) keeps staying trendy” -- the pianist’s touchstone, the ultimate classical classic. Popular among performers as the Goldberg Variations are, only one man has maintained a listener’s monopoly for the past half-century. Glenn Gould, the Canadian, the oddball: his 1955 recording brazenly bursts forth from the sea of C+-in-confidence Goldbergs. With the vim and vigor expected of twenty-somethings (but seldom exemplified by them), Gould executes each variation with an exuberance sure to exhume Bach Sr. himself. Shirking all repeats, Gould reduces eighty minutes of G Major (& assoc.) to just under forty; also, he takes certain variations at tempi nearly double of those chosen by other performers (and he is free to -- Bach provided no indication of tempo). Yet the listener is not at all left in want of the omitted half, for Gould condenses a repeated section’s worth of expressive development into a single statement: each voice speaks in one instance with infinite, independent inflection. Indeed, Glenn Gould’s deliberate fingers unite player and piano into a single unit, a machine free from human foible, most suited to performing so perfect a composition.

ballad of the border-crossing bonsai

5 AM: only Melvin is awake

Somewhere along Highway 85, north toward Mountain View, he began life as a hippo that was shaped like a giraffe. Despite this, his parents kept him, raising him with doubled dinner portions. Melvin lived for a meaningful forty-five minutes, then perished into memory.

Until he died and came alive, as a bonsai.

On his last day in Saratoga, my mother and I raced up 85 North toward Yamagami's Nursery with twelve minutes until closing time; we drove for ten. In a flurry, we purchased a potted bonsai and a hefty squirt-bottle of seaweed extract. I chose the only plant that could endure Cambridge winters: a tall, floppy, gangly creature with bulging joints, somewhat reminiscent of a giraffe.

I knew that he couldn't bring the bonsai on his flight, so I brought it to his house for a brief meet-and-greet. It was then that Melvin inhabited the bonsai in a startling, invigorating infusion of spirit and stem. He left before me, and thus Melvin came to be.

Melvie, airborne

In preparation for our far-east movement, I bathed him in an inky emulsion of seaweed-extract and filtered water. With quilted paper towels and gentle strokes, I polished his pot, which was ochre with swirls. (Did I polish with swirling motions, or were there swirls on his pot? See how a non-comma between "ochre" and "with" makes all the difference!) Soon, Melvin was in ship-shape for his voyage from SFO to BOS.

He spent a lot of time perched on my luggage, and after check-in time, in my lap. What stares we received on the plane, in the shuttle, and in line at Hertz Car Rental. Little Melvin looked bruised and parched from journey, so I doused him with my airplane tea.

That evening, Melvin took up residence in Matthews Hall, where he proceeded to become the star of Hashtag The Plant Channel, aired in daily installments on Instagram for a time in September. Melvin, toasted by Toaster to orangey perfection (again, a nod to his ungulate roots), became the face of acting-like-one-has-had-pot-without-having-had-pot.

From then on, Melvin's story switched tellers. When I last met him in October, he was healthier than ever, scattering small, oval patches of shade on a plaid pillow.

心愛的公公

Auntie Susan, the apple of my grandpa's eye. She has
been by his side for the past year, visiting him three times
a day, enduring the cycle of recovery and regression. See
how she decorated her Papa with golden glasses. 

by Irene Breck
edited by globie, her daught-product

"My grandfather passed away while my father was still very young. Therefore, my grandmother had to raise all four children on her own. My father knew he needed to be aggressive in order to receive a better education. In his young age, he would stop his grandfather's sedan chair and ask for monetary support so that he could go to the school run by the missionaries. Hence, he was well educated and fluent in English. In his time, this was very unusual.

My grandmother was a very fervent Christian and served as a female deacon in her church. She certainly noticed her son's brilliant potential, and always wanted him to become a pastor. But this was not his choice at all. He was determined to run away from her God and her expectations -- as far as he could run. (I never realized my father was a Christian until I evangelized to him about God in 1997. I was surprised by joy. I also recognized that my father's gracious manner came from his Christian education and family.)

By his own choice and willful justification, he had [over the course of his life] two wives and many mistresses. He generated nine children between the two wives, but he also generated lots of bitterness between them. My [full] siblings always believed that our mother worked hard but died young, surrendering all of her properties to our stepmom, someone she hated most.

During the second world war, my father passed many challenging exams and earned himself the opportunity to further his education at Columbia University. He flew over the Himalayas and waited in India for three months for the boat to arrive. It took him across the small seas and great ocean to New York City; that was the only way to avoid the war zone. He had great experiences at Columbia: he had many girlfriends, while my mother waited in China with my brother. (I was named after one of these girlfriends; I had wondered why my mother was always upset with my name.) But nevertheless my father remembered his wife and children. Instead of staying in the United States, he came back to his country when China was still in the midst of civil war. I admired his courage for taking up family responsibilities on his shoulders when they needed to relocate to Taiwan in 1949.

God blessed him with many more children and wealth in Taiwan. He worked very hard as a professor at NTU and founding principal of Taipei American School to provide for two families. All of us thank him for he never abandoning us, and even leaving some wealth to us. But none of us appreciated having to live in his house with the shadow of the other family. My half-brother openly told us that if he had the choice, he would have chosen never to have been born into this home.

In 1997, my father's response to his faith was that it was "time to go back to church." He told me that he missed his mother so badly. He felt her calling in church, where he enjoyed old hymns from his childhood and the gentle calling from his mom. He told me that his friend 林語堂, a respected journalist, returned to church as a 60-year-old man. They shared the same province, background, and choice to avoid their parents' faith; but they also made the same choice to return. They both searched up and down the world, throughout all philosophies and religions. My father fell in love with many girls and made many mistakes, but God still loved him and allowed him to soar on eagles' wings. I praise my Lord as He has been gracious to my father, his children, grandchildren, and all his wives and girlfriends. Without my father's effort, God found many of us and has kept us well on earth. My father is ready to return to his heavenly home now.

Thank you for working so hard to raise us. May you rest in peace with your creator."

what rain does

more effective than any topcoat

When I was still asleep I could hear the rain creeping into the morning. It began as a whirring that I mistook for circulating refrigeration fluid. The sound disturbed Sierra, too; I saw her sit up in bed. Then the whirring swelled into a watery cascade -- no intermediate pattering, just a sudden arrival.

As I walked down the glassy path to the library sans iPhone camera, I fumbled for images fit to describe the transformation. Rain deepens all colors just as seawater polishes pebbles: those round coins, temporarily coated in gleaming cobalt, gathering ruches on the shore. How disappointed I am an hour later to find the glistening token in my pocket replaced by a dull, gray lump, as pointless as a paver, powdery to the touch. Today the rain lavishes on the great granite quarry that is Vermont the same emollient, one that intensifies every gray and washes every white; creating contrast, phrasing, dynamics. Light reflects off of wet walls instead of warming them. And tomorrow returns the dry, dusty neutrals of sun-baked brick.

But the soft leaves on feathered trees absorb the rain and glow ever brighter their golds and russets and greens, their apple-tones, until they are so waterlogged that they drop to the mud. 

that age-old question

"Gloria, do you want to be an architect?"

10/10 －10/14: 朋友見面

真的很想你

(I can outline the motions in Chinese, but the emotions I reserve)
星期五下午四點半，我坐上去學校辦得秋假公車。小怪座我旁邊，跟我分他的 Ritz 餅乾。她對中國古代文學很有興趣，她小時候不到一歲已經會背詩。她說我應該給（朋友）送一個紅豆手鐲（紅豆生南國）。小怪的男朋友在清華大學醫學院，所以她也送過紅豆手鐲。還有，小怪發現我的名字（“友梅”）有特別的意思。中國詩人有三個朋友：竹，梅，松。梅花在冬天開花，竹子和松樹不會被風吹斷。弟弟的名字剛好是“友松”。

我們晚上八點半到南波士頓的車站。我跟小怪座地鐵，過美麗的 Charles 河。她在 MIT 站下來，我自己坐到哈佛。（朋友）在油條點等我，我一看到他就開始跑。他現抱我，再擦擦眼淚。我們那天晚上走去河邊，一邊說笑話，一邊說實話。我們在橋上走幾圈，看圓圓的月亮。那天晚上睡得很飽。

星期六早上，我們吃冷披薩，賴在宿舍裡。下雨了，所以我們躲進去一家越南麵店。吃完以後一起坐地鐵去波士頓市中心，花一個下午逛街。（朋友）餓了，所以我們在 Quincy 市場吃龍蝦三明治和蛤蜊濃湯。我們看到熱鬧的糕點店進去買波士頓 cream pie，eclair， 和 canoli。 還沒肥死，但是我的褲子扣不起來。回到宿舍一起跳舞。噢！我忘了最有意思的事：睡覺前，我們倆帶上耳機，一邊聽音樂，一邊散步。我們在科學學院找到一間空教室，在黑板上畫圖，留給別人欣賞。

星期天早上，我去地下室找鋼琴。練完鋼琴以後，（朋友）帶我去吃三頓午飯：Clover 素菜（他受得了），Life Alive 嬉皮食物（他受不了），還有韓國豆腐煲。天氣真美，所以我們去公園曬太陽。那天晚上，（朋友）的朋友慶祝生日，另外一個朋友請我們去聽她的無伴奏合唱團。我覺得（朋友）很適合唱這種歌。這位朋友叫 “阿拉克絲”。阿拉克絲請我們跟她的表姐去很高級的甜點店吃宵夜。蘋果派配冰淇淋，芝士蛋糕， 熱熱的巧克力蛋糕配核桃，三種冰糕：我們簡直太幸福！阿拉克絲是杭州人（長得非常韓周）；她的表姐是湖州人。很高興認識她們。

星期一，Columbus Day。跟（朋友）再去吃一頓豆腐煲。他帶我去參觀一下哈佛 Crimson 紙總部：前門當然是紅色的。我自己去逛街，找到一家非常可愛的舊貨店叫 Oona’s。（朋友）和阿拉克絲打算跳進去 Charles 河，但是太多人在河裏划船。他們最後該注意去吃披薩。我們回去宿舍看一部電影叫 Ponyo。小魚太可愛！看完電影又討論我們很特別的情況。

星期二，該回家了。早餐：先做的白米飯配蘿蔔！（朋友）送我去門口的地鐵站，幫我拉行李。希望有一天可以再跟他過一樣好的日子。再見，好朋友！好好學習！

books and movies books and movies some music too

This week, I am sponge.

Squelched from the pages of Kafka on the Shore:

"Still, there's something in this photo of the nineteen-year-old that the middle-aged woman I know has lost forever. You might call it an outpouring of energy. Nothing showy, it's colorless, transparent, like fresh water secretly seeping out between rocks--a kind of natural, unspoiled appeal that shoots straight to your heart. That brilliant energy seeps out of her entire being as she sits there at the piano. Just by looking at that happy smile, you can trace the beautiful path that a contented heart must follow. Like a firefly's glow that persists long after it's disappeared into the darkness."
I want to draw this scene. I want to live it.

"'Tell me something,' Hoshino began. 
'What?''
Are you really Colonel Sanders?'
Colonel Sanders cleared his throat. 'Not really. I'm just taking on his appearance for a time.'
'That's what I figured,' Hoshino said. 'So what are you really?'
'I don't have a name.'
'How do you get along without one?'
'No problem. Originally I don't have a name or shape.'
'So you're kind of like a fart.'"
That is powerful writing (or translation).

Sopped up from last night's screening of Frühlingssinfonie:

"The Spring Symphony" roused in me indomitable desire. Desire for musical companionship, for communication, for insoluble bonds. The love story of Robert and Clara Schumann confirms the impermanence of human passion, but affirms that our art--the words, sounds, and images that outlive their smithers--may cheat change. 

In one scene, they swim in seas of white sheets and nightgowns to the swelling of his piano concerto, clinging to each other with a fury usually reserved for their respective roles as composer and performer; in the next moment, they are married strangers, regretful yet resolute. An abrupt ending: Robert dies young of syphilis, but Clara spends the next forty years performing and promulgating his works. Music tied them together in life and death; it was a strand that the Fates could not sever.

And a comment on music-marketing:

What does it take to make classical music appeal to contemporary audiences? Perhaps some proper exploiting, as this flyer does Symphonie Fantastique. Berlioz's audiences knew the stories behind his sounds; if our generation did as well, there would be hope for the genre.

sounds good to me

from edith, to gladys: correct me if I'm wrong

hey, we made it to this day!

When we were seven or eight, we met at the ranch house on Scotland Drive every Wednesday for MPM lessons. You saw a plate of lumpy, cold 红烧肉on teacher's kitchen table and, to fill the awkward silence between yourself and my mom, said loudly that you'd like to eat it. You had a birthday party at the Los Gatos Karate studio and demonstrated how to break a board but no matter how hard you kicked it, it wouldn't break, so they gave you a new one.

When we were nine, we collected zip-line choreography into a handbook, co-authored with Nova. With that we reached our athletic zenith. You passed me notes written on paper towels that certified my membership in the Martini Club. I didn't know what martinis were, but you seemed worldly and wise because you had a older sister. She began to teach me violin. After lessons, I would take home maple-leaf-shaped cream cheese cookies. Sometimes, I would tag along with your family to San Francisco to hear her play, and in the car we watched The Prince of Egypt and Indian in the Cupboard. Once, a con-man took your dad's tickets.

When we were ten, I think we both liked the same boy. His calves looked like twigs and his eyelashes were long and he liked you in kindergarten, which made me jealous, I think. With my little brother, we watched The Incredibles in theaters and in your room re-enacted our favorite scenes. You whipped out the sparring stick and some scarves and we performed The Arabian Cat, with the lights off for dramatic effect. Whenever I tried to hold Donna, you would correct my hand position for fear I upset her stomach. We still went to San Francisco from time to time, and on the way home, we jim-jammed to Wine Red and other Hush Sound (Shh Noise) tunes. This was our "tomboy" phase (T-shirts and short hair, riding a boy bike).

When we were eleven, we were both in Mr. Lyon's class (yes, the class that was punished for putting too much emphasis on "sss," which is kind of weird, looking back). At this time Jennifer Ho planted Tutti-Frutti jelly beans in the tanbark to see if they'd become a splotchy, pukey-colored tree. Thus began the Age of the Apothecaries: we mashed up honeysuckle and stuck banana slices on tree branches to dry. I think your bunny passed away at this time, and you were heartbroken for a week. Tomboyish mannerisms evaporated; you were wearing your sister's old AE knits. Also, you were one head taller than me. For Halloween I aimed for Dementor but looked more like a hooded chimney sweep, chim chim chiroo. At Jonathan's house before Kumon we "killed the innocent person." Those golden animal crackers came in packets of pink, blue, and green.

When we were twelve, we fought quite often. Like Romeo to your Julianne, I wooed you with irritating Calvin and Hobbes-themed cards, passed across the hall, until you became my friend again (but not really). So I turned to Tiffany R, and you to cool buddies like Nadia and Elise (who put Jason T's hat in the bathroom) and other Cohnites. We wrote Ashley troubling letters which were discovered. Now braces adorned your bunny teeth; they changed color, but mostly were your favorite purple. Despite the tough times, we formed a band and declared Jonathan the manager. For inspiration, we watched "Sexy Back" at his desktop computer. That summer Ashley Lowe moved to Thousand Oaks, so we went to Tartini with her, and had a sleepover that was ruin of all future sleepovers: you got sick and mal-performed at Bin Tang Badminton Camp.

When we were thirteen, we were thoroughly teen. Token Juicy jackets: hot pink for me, demure black velvet with gold zippers for you. Trips to Valley Fair gave us meaning. Every day was so very chock-full of classes, silly ones that featured Cardio Days and team handball. P.E. shorts became my uniform, but you were always careful to maintain appearances. We made French videos and looked forward to monthly Fleur de Cocoa; Hera regaled us with movie plot synopses. Chinese school occupied Friday nights; ski trips occupied winter breaks. Once, in a buffet, we saw Kevjumba. Once, you licked Alvin's cheek, and Derek kissed mine. Once, you liked Austin D HAHAHA

Your fourteenth birthday at Elephant Bar.
Only for you, gerbil, do I expose my
mysterious eyebrowless-ness...

When we were fourteen, we were good girls, becoming serious now. Serious about reading, about church, about puppeteering people. A capricious lunch group consisting of Maggie, Karen, Rachel, Sarah, Casey, Annanya, Stephanie, and Monica was at once frightening and comforting; members were ousted from time to time. You, Casey, and I climbed Montalvo (not, we stayed at the base) and found that magical resonant spot. There was a group on facebook called "Julianne's Sighing is Relaxing" and how right they were; it still is! For your birthday, you had a sleepover (woah!); we went to Kitsch Couture and ate lemon bars and took home mugs for goodie bags. That was the first time I seriously considered the width of my thighs, because of those lemon bars. At graduation, nian gao was happy; you had a beautiful tapestry-like dress with yellow edges, and got honor roll. 'Twas the year of the slender saluki. Also, of the DC-trip: truly formative life experience (physically formative, that is: leaf in palm).

When we were fifteen, time began to run. At homecoming we wrapped green mesh around our heads and safety-pinned our black T-shirts with golden safety pins, per your suggestion; you'd read it in InStyle. After watching people freak I went home and wrote a ferocious letter; you were a chill cat. Those ski trips still existed; I fell in like with Logan and followed him home every day. Yuning--that senior girl with the pierced-ear boyfriend--called us annoying, but we giggled on. You liked the Kings of Leon song "Your Sex is On Fire," which sounded like "your socks are on fire" to me. I became a choir weird-o and TA'd orchestra, dancing in the practice rooms to arrangements of The Barber of Seville. That vegetable Jeffrey entered your life at this time, and suddenly you had a sweet-heart, and became perpetually pigeon-toed. He came to youth group, where we discussed dating.

When we were sixteen, we no longer had Chinese together (no more 奶黄包). But we went to Sausalito and marveled at paperclips bent into rabbit shapes; two happy mothers, two happy daughters. Blue waters and sunset; Joshua Bell was delicious to hear and see. You ate Penne Primavera, pronounced correctly. We lifted weights in P.E. with Kristie/Gloria/Rachel, and one day, a rogue Catherine Liu bounced into the mango-body-sprayed locker room. You went to Winter Ball with Burrito (Calvin Academy standard terminology), and to Sadie's with someone else, that good buddy (Vivian and I used bumpy paint to make you T-shirts). That spring, we began trekking through Narnia to the farmer's market; that summer, our moms began Zumbing. You ventured to Valencia and New Haven; I held on to you from home.

When we were seventeen, we sought to secure tomorrow. I put my head down and practiced piano, and seldom saw you outside of school; those hours of APUSH spent passing baby carrots back and forth and monitoring Rohan's head-droopiness were so precious to me. Mornings in Chinese with Kristie and Sabrina: I'd crane my neck and check your teeth for you whenever you asked. We escaped in October to a Croatian concert, one to remember forever. Fomenters of Switzerlandish revolution were we, and hoarders of ex-boyfriend house-elves (not to mention stalkers of the UV-deprived). I began to drive; once, I dared to sneak you to TJ's. Thanks to you, Samuel came along and plucked my holly leaves and wove a wreath (thank you, again, for him). You faded a little bit from my sight, but I loved you all along.

My eighteen is very different from yours, for yours begins today. Mine included all the sad milestones: college-grubbing, graduation, Spain, farewells. Your eighteen arrives on the brink of the unknown. We're older, still young; a bit battered about the heart, but still whole. It's been over a decade with you, now. A decade of the dearest best friendship, of so many "seasons of love" impossible to measure but in laughs, cups of water, hugs, paper bags, words. On your last night in Saratoga, you didn't hear my operatic weeping in the car as I drove home; my brother had to take the wheel. For your departure ushered in a very different season of love, one marked by distance and divergence; but there is hope in that all seasons come and go. Thank you, Julianne Wey, for every day that was and is to come.

I always remember your birthday because I was baptized on this day in seventh grade--another kind of birth. It's a precious tie that I have to you, one that ensures our friendship forever. God bless you in your eighteenth year.

you, there: listen to your mother's words

Yes, the video is bluish and the chorus a bit too rock-ballad, but this song belongs in the ear-diet of all those with moms that constantly feed that ear.

Argonaut Elementary, 7:30 pm on a mid-May Friday: the cowbell commands all Chinese schoolers to convene. In preparation for the graduation show, Lin (or Wang or Hsu or Wu) Laoshi has us listen to Jay Chou's "聽媽媽的話" (listen to your mom) for homework. Stepho played the drums, Julianne strummed, I tickled the plastic ivories, Jonny rapped (ever the T-pop connoisseur),  and Mandy/Derek/et al did interpretive dance-clapping. Later on, in high school, the video clip fit nicely into every Mother's Day Project assigned to us by Mrs. Fan.

It's nowhere near May or Mother's Day, but I've got the song on loop. It's the story behind it that gets me: Jay Chou's parents divorced when he was young, and he was raised by his mother. She sent him to piano and cello lessons, and supported him after he graduated high school with grades too shoddy for university. When Jay's father cursed his muddled musician of a son, his mother shielded him, patiently prodding him forward. Jay Chou is Taiwan's pride today. He credits his mother for her unwavering faith in his talents, for nurturing and pruning them until unlikelihoods unfolded into success.

周杰倫有一首歌讓我特別感動，就是“聽媽媽的話”。我們小時候每個星期五晚上去Argonaut上中文學校。有一天，我們班在準備畢業表演。老師叫我們一起唱“聽媽媽的話”。 有些向朋友打鼓，有些彈吉他，有些跳舞。我幫他們彈鋼琴。媽媽們聽我們好像挺高薪！

從那年以後，我每一個母親節會給我的媽媽彈周杰倫這首歌。“聽媽媽的話”真的很有意思，因為周杰倫在謝謝他自己的媽媽不停的支持他，雖然他想當音樂家。他的爸爸不理他的時候，他的媽媽一直站在他身邊。周杰倫成為了一歌很棒的音樂家：他所有的歌曲是自己寫的。他還拍了一步非常好看電音叫“不能說的秘密”；我常常聽到年輕人學他彈琴。據我所知，他屬於台灣的英雄！我很高興他記得好好謝謝他的母親。我有時候忘記謝謝我自己的父母保持希望。

invert carpe diem

Photos are the best prompts!

Just over a year ago I met this kind of flower in a field somewhere in western Massachusetts (deja vu) and at that precise moment I fell in love with the East Coast. We shall see if this love lasts through the winter. How fortunate I am to walk paths lined with lace.

My roommate and her friend have very festive hair. Jenn, the girl with the pink and blue 'do (like Jamaican ice), says that her hair becomes elastic when wet, like stretchy spaghetti. At night, my roommate wraps her curls in a lovely lavender bonnet because they can't touch cotton.

I taped family photos next to my pillow. Somehow, they convince me that the sum of flawed parts was perfect. Favorite ones: watching Amy Tan's Shagua with my brother in Li Ma's room; riding scooters with Sarah; my brother's plastic firetruck bed (the sleepovers began then); and sitting in Dad's lap in Ann Arbor. 

These two come as a set. Red umbrella and piano books in hand, I set out to post a letter to Samuel and practice for an afternoon. Rain is the world's eyeliner, darkening pretty lines. Also, New England is full of graveyards (Sometimes I feel like my writing has regressed to a fifth-grade level).

My Birkenclogs get wet and so do my toes :(

Three yellow boxes on black: this is Carr Hall, site of Midd Inter-Varsity Christian Fellowship, after Sunday praise night. Two professors attend the meetings--two of hundreds. But even though the light at Midd is small, it's bright.

Dad taking a selfie (...) at SFO with mom before she left for Taipei. She surprised me by writing a beautiful poem for her own dad: 

女兒，我要走了! 

回到那美麗的家鄉，我的母親和我們的主在那裡迎接我。

我知道妳愛我，所以我不能走的無牽無掛，我頻頻回首，只見泣不成聲的女兒。 

那個活潑可愛，喜歡跳舞的小公主，那個慰藉我喪女之痛的小天使，她泣立在我面前⋯

我不願意走因為她仍然須要我。

但是我的敵人死亡，一步步逼近，我拼命抵擋⋯

我的主把我從死亡中搶救出來，原來祂戰勝了死亡，把我安置在永生的起點。

美麗光明的家鄉不再遙遠，讚美的詩歌遠遠響起，好似我母親的呼喚⋯

女兒，不要哭泣， 

我為妳祈求那滿有恩慈的主，

祂應許我，有一天我們會再見面。

在那美麗而遙遠的家鄉，她快樂的跑過來，就像當年的小公主。

My first "essay" for German class, entitled 'Waggelpudding,' (which means Jello if I spelled it correctly). Ich bin nicht Berliner!

A happy place in the basement of Sunderland Language Center. Nobody goes there in the evenings and on weekends. I love the lamp's company. There's a sign taped to the stand that says "Please do not move the bench because it's hard to play while sitting on the floor."

At 4:45 today a handful of Wonnacott Commons members piled into a white van and barreled through the countryside. We hiked to the top of Snake Mountain, where we feasted on Cabot cheese, cider jam, apples, three loaves and no fishes.

And that's the Middlebury story so far! 

Thank you, God, for every day.

things that people have said that I say in a different way

(Bettina's class is best)
In all artistic experiences, audiences seek authenticity. Music is a tricky art to assess, as it evolves with every performance; the same notes may sound entirely different, depending on performer, setting, instrument, and even humidity levels. Thus, performers of Baroque music face a specialized conundrum: is it best to adhere to period instruments and interpretations, in the process constricting that essential musical evolution? Can a long-gone artist’s intentions be authentically conveyed on the modern stage? In comparing harpsichord and modern-piano performances of Bach’s second keyboard concerto, one finds musical merit in both instrumentations. 

Classically-trained ears are accustomed to hearing harpsichords embedded in Baroque ensembles, seldom stealing the spotlight. Therefore, when featured in concertos, the harpsichord blends without seam into the tapestry. The modern piano, on the contrary, stands out in this context. Each rounded pearl of a note, in contrast to the crisp taps of a harpsichord, is a cool stranger to the Baroque ensemble. Also, because the sound of a piano is associated with solo performances, the ensemble sounds at times superfluous. The harpsichord converses comfortably with other period instruments, but is harder to “dig” out of the ensemble; the piano sounds pleasant, but out of place.

Both performers approach the concerto with tempos appropriate to their instruments. The harpsichord and its orchestral companion languish together in luxuriant conversation, taking time to ensure that every interval is absorbed by the listener. The pianist, on other hand, executes the concerto with Mozart-like energy, prioritizing the precision of his attacks. Not a note falls out of place, whereas the harpsichordist staggers notes slightly, yielding an unsynchronized richness.

While both performers differentiate the voices with equal care, the instruments themselves limit the performer’s ability to do so. On the harpsichord, voices ring clearest at extremes of the keyboard; high notes sing brightly, and bass notes slice through the fray. Voices occurring in the mid-range are less memorable. The harpsichord’s dynamic disability allows only for “terraced” occurrences of loud and soft. The piano’s percussive nature, however, permits inflection within each phrase, and constant character changes within one voice.

Interpretation-wise, the harpsichordist plays with forthrightness, perhaps encouraged by the unmistakable insistency of instrument. The pianist expresses as an introvert would, revealing in wisps the ability to freely glide between piano and forte. Thus, the harpsichord speaks best to the distracted ear--as any ear would be, by the polyphonic nature of Baroque music--and the piano takes advantage of its incongruity.

(#liberalarts)

I'm here now

... and it is beautiful. Vermont and California seem worlds apart--here, the grass grows longer and greener, and the flowers are far lovelier. I think that's because they're buried under snow for seven months. So, when they do bloom, they bloom boldly.

our moving castle, part 5

made it in two pieces

Final Sunday, callooh callay! Following breakfast of noodles, we set off for Zhejiang University on bicycles. I had in mind a pleasantly-paced roll through a pedestrian-free park. Oi oi, it was not pleasant--it was fantastic! Helmet-less, we were! I received repeated visions of my head getting clunked. The key to biking in China is to keep up with the herd: ya lag, ya splat. Takes more than a bit of gumption to wedge oneself between two moving buses, or to weave diagonally across an intersection. But as we pedaled on, I felt the qualms fly past, and we merged into the commuting rhythms of the city. Three more heads in the infinite crowd.
The road leading up to the university is called Qiu Shi Lu, or "Search for Truth Street." Veritas indeed. Green cobbles outshone Hillhouse, and great peachy Tower of Power (Mao's statue) oversaw all. Toured S's mom's old dorm building (she was in 105, we poked into 108), met boy playing computer game. Slept four in white mosquito nets, with beer n' cigarettes. Basketball court outside, steps where boys squat and rate girls.
Hurrah! More biking! Right outside our final destination, I somehow fell off the bike without knocking it over. In fact, it stood proudly on the curb, kickstand out. Within seconds, it seems, S was at my side, and I howled like Timmy does for his milk bottle. Ochochoch. At least I didn't hit my head (Samuel hit it for me later).
At lunch, there were gold-leaf pork segments and candied ginseng and insect-root soup and marbled nuts, scrumptious as they were sumptuous. Poor Orio had a stomach bug and threw up thrice, once in a moving taxi. Had to roll down the window. At home, all slept. I finished my re-submission of Evelyn Waugh paper and did stretches, awaiting Last Supper. Samuel delivered Will Smith home to the Flowers and Fish Market by himself, and brought him home in papier-mâché.

Bunny come back to me -V. Hudgens

We all sat there, at the oval table (Ariel lay facedown on the couch). Lake critters: turtle, oyster, crayfish, eels, edged by plates of green and white veggies. No rice tonight, except for the Small One, who sat upon his High Chair. S toasted with his Watsons water bottle, one for each grandparent. Sometime in the conversation, when prodded, I made feeble Chinglish toasts of my own. Very inarticulate and weird, but meant as truth.
Doorbell, Shun Shun. He showed us his sketch and text books, wondrous things. Control of fine lines. I poured the remainder of my Costco chocolates on him and wished a Happy Easter (subtle attempt to proselytize). Hope he likes.
An almost-FaceTime with Nai Nai, and voila! The time came for our last date. Not so many words here--just know that it was the best date I've had (this one outdoes all other aforementioned "best dates" on our the moving castle... maybe), with the best one I've known. Have I a better word than best? No, because it is only with the best... that I choose to build my nest! Bliss, bliss, sublime as a kiss, pale pink and lotus-colored from beginning to end, 7:45 to 10. It cost quite a bit (...that Idahoan ice cream...), but for once we had pocket-change to burn, not pages to turn. I held my Samuel in the starlit trees and drank life to the lees. (Journal entry concludes with doodles of macarons, a sweet-almond teapot, and Samuel's ears.)
Last word: I always feel that the trip ends when we pack to leave--by then, our hearts are at home again. On this trip, I felt the warmth of a family: in the chilled gray skies of Qingdao, in the green of Hangzhou. This warmth doesn't end when our moving castle lands at SFO, though. It grows through tomorrow and all time. I studied the history of Samuel Liu, and fitted the frames of the puzzle.

Good night, China, from two January pigs.

  

intermission: bowls across poetry and prose

Remixing "The Poems of Our Climate," by Wallace Stevens (1977), and "Janus," by Ann Beattie (1986), because they both had white bowls.

I
The bowl was perfect.
The imperfect is our paradise.
It was once placed on a cherry table beneath a Bonnard still life, where it held its own
in the room more like a snowy air, reflecting snow.
It had been perfectly placed, that the sunlight struck the bluer part of it. 

II
The wonderful thing about the bowl... 
was that it was both subtle and noticeable--a paradox of a bowl.

The imperfect is our paradise.

Its glaze was the color of cream and seemed to glow no matter what light it was placed in.

A bowl of white, cold, a cold porcelain, low and round.

In its way, it was... the world cut in half, deep and smoothly empty.

Clear water in a brilliant bowl, a world of white, a world of clear water, brilliant-edged.

III
Could it be that she had some deeper connection with the bowl...

She was sure that the bowl brought her luck.

In time, she dreamed of the bowl.

And made it fresh in a world of white.

It came into sharp focus and startled her for a moment.

IV
A bowl was a poor conductor of electricity: it would not be hit by lightning. 

Still one would want more, one would need more,

More than a world of white and snowy scents.

V

Say even that this complete simplicity

(they always faltered when they tried to say something)

Stripped one of all one’s torments,

Yet the idea of damage persisted.

She asked her husband to please not drop his house key in it.

our moving castle, part 4

Restaurant Shenma

Monday! Xixi Guojia Shidi, the greenest place on (the good) earth. Had mochis for breakfast; Mom called me “bai bai pang pang” over video call. Family packed up for a trip to the wetlands, just 30 minutes away. There was a place for “man sheng huo,” or slow living. We met Samuel’s mom’s cousin, who nestled us into an eclectic (no better word for the boggliness), white-washed (not figuratively), slightly dusty tavern called Restaurant Shenma (character for horse). Telescopes for decoration, broken vase mosaics. A long patio downstairs, squishy, patchwork quarters above. On the way into the park we acquired coconuts, chicken, and stinky tofu. 

 very -omantic outing

Samuel and I took a boat that led to another boat. And another, and another… Each stop yielded a new patch of bamboo island to explore, rife with jewel-bodied bugs and gnats, with tall grasses and dead fish that were very silver. We walked on the wide cobbles, one behind the other, until we tired. Shared a very luscious Shou Zhua Bing. The first boat was empty but for us; another Howl’s Moving Castle! We found a secluded bench, and I held Samuel’s head in my lap for the longest time, counting his eyelashes, looking for my reflection in his pupils. One of the happiest moments I’ve passed, stooped shoulders and all. Had a Haagen-Dazs at 3:30, another bing, and various pokings around the neighboring village, in search of the elusive caramel shop. Posed under the -Omantics sign (a clever hedge blocked the “R”). 

a good brother

Samuel messed with Timmy using a new remote-control red car, and we wandered to the nearby bridge (illustration) and hid in a stairwell, until Timmy and Wai Po spotted and fired twigs at us. 
Oho! Forgot the mention the oyster. Samuel bought a live oyster which the vendor promptly sliced open, revealing more than twenty pearls in white and purple. Gave one to a small girl, set two in earrings, which I aspire to wear often (I do)!
Then, an unctuous dinner at Wai Po Jia, the fanciest one I’ve seen: hair-covered banisters, walls papered in live ivy and moss, a rooftop garden of cacti. Samuel drank 2.5 tumblers of vodka, which I thought tasted like my mom’s fermented broad bean paste but even more lethal/potent. Many thanks to (illustration of JJ ayi) for delicious, 18-dish dinner. Went into hysterics over OTATOP, crammed into humid little can (positively dying from multiple afflictions). ’Twas yet another wondrous day—each one outdoes the yester. 

silver scene

To-day, Tuesday. Ran home early from breakfast at a corporate (Zhejiang Communications) cafeteria to shower; emptied Will Smith's litter box and bought milk at Tomato Store with S. Then, embarked on attempt to walk around West Lake with our new neighbor friend, who loves to speak. Shun Shun, said neighbor, raised 18 bunnies in his career, and gave great insight into the bunny-noisemaking process (shutting them in drawers... D:). Was the grayest day; the lake and sky met in milky nothingness, and all floated in a cloud. Met family for Hangzhouish lunch of vinegar-fish at Lou Wai Lou, one of the great marbled buildings on the lakeshore. 

Cozy tea shop

An afternoon of Game of Thrones and a tummy ache (made better by S). Headed out at 4 for an afternoon coffee that would spill into a Zhang Yimou-directed light show on the lake. Lo and behold, there was a baby grand piano on the mostly empty second floor, ripe for the playing! Very snuggly and serene couple of hours spend drinking sugar tea and attempting duet with Ariel. S read Wild Swans contentedly; on the homestretch. Mr. Peter joined biked over from a meeting with professor and we had lovely (still unctuous) meal; befriended Jiang Xi waiter boy ("Keep the change!"). Puttered off, arm in arm, to the show ("Impressions of Wests Lake"--very impressive), a rendering of The Legend of White Snake. Euphony of lights, lake, and fluffy Truffula trees. Most impressed by fog mountain that rose out of the water, downy feathers, and the way performers walked on water ("Wet socks." -Samuel). S got up and sat back down into a nonexistent chair, wahaha! Striking music--jarring might be the word for it. Señor biked home, while we caught a friendly driver of a non-cab from Anhui whose ringtone rang A's bells. And now we are tucked back into Ding An Yuan, reading, writing, poring over old photos in the yellow evening light. Mistook-for-a-Uyghur count: 3. Xie xie Shang Di.

a boy and his book

Then came Wednesday. In the morn, popped in my purple pearl earrings, and huddled into beige Mercedes van with everyone. Off to Hongge Ayi's home house palace! Nestled among rosebuds and willow trees, and tightly walled in, her elegant abode stood in a row of closely-neighbored estates of similar dimensions. Three tasteful stories, two kitchens, one maid-helper; matched slipper sets for both indoors and outdoors. Hand-embroidered walls, chocolate-covered acai berries and pineapple on the patio, a home theatre with a trampoline (we watched Gravity, a movie of great gravity). We ogled the view from the Juliet balcony, with its sun-and-stars-tiled pool and koi-filled ponds. 'Twas a pleasant time in clear-aired paradise, thanks to S's mom's dear friend through high school, college, and the present.

with Skittle-colored bouquet

We had lunch at a light-filled hotel in the House District (Fangzi Qu)--notable scrambled eggs and four-season beans. Periodic stroll with Timmy to the garden to let him toss rocks into the fountain guarded by the sign that said "Parents Please Restrain Little Kids from Throwing Items into Water." First walked with Ariel, discovered caged parakeets and happily stumbled upon a wild Samuel playing Cut the Rope, trying to win extra levels. After lunch we took Timmy to see the peacocks past the pool, and as we hopped across the stream, S procured a bouquet (Skittle-colored and sized!) and launched into "There's this girl I know..." and my little coeur did a dance and I figured that playing Cut the Rope after beating it = writing new poem with words like "intertwination" in it. And as we walked the green loop with Sheep-sheep and spotted a boat in the algean water and commented on weighted peacocks I gave thanks for this one boy in a million and once again prayed for eternity. Then, in slight contrast, we ate a 1000-calorie pastry in the theatre.

stolid.

That night, we munched with parents' college classmates at InTime mall (third floor, very posh, mossy walls again) and relieved them of Timmy by taking him to Cold Stone, many escalators down. S ordered beloved strawberry with nuts (? :D) and Ariel and I shared a Cheesecake Fantasy. And what do ye know: before five bites, Timmy stood on a chair, shoved paw into waffle cup, and knocked Cheesecake Fantasy -SHFLAT- onto the ground. "Timmy, I actually hate you," wept/snorted Ariel, and we promptly assailed S's strawberry with nuts. Timmy's Wai Gong came up the escalator, arms open like a savior, and to take him home, a sight that somehow stuck. The night was well-spent, for I was physically spent.
(Thursday and Friday blended because of a brief bout of stomach sickness)
The next day, we were all supposed to go to Shaoxing (of wine fame), but S succeeded in staying at home for homework, I fell to fever, and Ariel latched onto the lazy boat too. So off they went, and left Wai Po, S, A, and me at the apartment. I swallowed various pills (chomped them down with wontons) and existed horizontally on parents' bed for several hours, occasionally woken the sounds of by Wai Po hanging laundry outside, preschool recess, and the call of the recycler (tone quality of Mosque caller), a true decrescendo, a gradualness to emulate. Slept with hands at sides, tried to do S's breathing trick, which soothed me to sleep. The day passé in a soft wind of porridge, The Good Earth, and flannel pajama bottoms.

Japanese restaurant had green-tea dispenser

Eventually S woke up and we tried to go out, but I shriveled. S kindly fed Will Smith, brought me cups, and worked in the interstice between bed and cupboard atop Timmy's sheets. When he could work no longer, and I sleep no more, we watched the epic Dahk Knight Rises (DUN     DUN     DUN) until it was black outside and strolled to InTime in scrub outfits for Japanese food. No Cold Stone, but a nighttime Melona for Samuel at the Gerbil Trainer of Death and an early sleep for me.
Errhbit, another sick day. Finished Good Earth in the morning, played two notes on the violin, and felt well enough to eat Pizza Hut (huh huh) for lunch. Stupid Glob ate globs of cheese: three stuffed crusts, and felt after-effects soon enough. Tried to walk it off with Ariel by buying underwear at Uniqlo, but still felt like blob. Blob spent money and waddled home to rest.

cheered my sleeping self with scenes like these

Before long, trotted with female folk (A & A) to Longqiang market, a triple-decker cheap-stuff mecca just two subway stops away. Shopped a bit, then waited on as stool, contemplating cigarette smoke and wondering what people do when they absolutely nothing to do. They found me and we walked through drizzling Hangzhou, onto the two-yuan metro, and disembark. Was exhausted, but proceeded to family banquet. We fill two banquet rooms this time: every great-grandpa's son and second cousin was present. Demolished leaning pyramid of pickle corner by corner while Samuel passed the time by slow-motion recording his motorboat lips (flub web wee web) and taking Picasso-esque panoramas. Daughter of HongER Ayi, aged 26, studier in Australia, had same headband as me, Carrie Underwood ringtone, called Yuan Yuan--was nice! Took Ariel to stead restaurant later. Tried to stall departure by drinking tangyuan with Samuel, but soon enough we three left for McD and a photo album-sleep at home. I slept in S's nook, curtain drawn. I hummed the Moses lullaby and Samuel hummed it back. He knew it.

one thing remains: tying knots, ending eras

listen to Largo from Bach's Violin Sonata No. 3
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iARBh_DfP0w

Tonight was my last lesson with Mr. Lin. As I shed my shoes at the door, I heard a parent bawling with great passion (her little girl stood there smiling, shifting her weight from one purple-socked foot to another), lamenting the loss of a teacher that they'd known for years. The weekly question: "What's our mission for today?" Mr. Lin turned to a slow movement riddled with double-triple-quadruple stops and commanded me to play. That piece, he told me, was so dear to him that he asked a friend to perform it at his and Mrs. Lin's wedding. "A very philosophical piece," he said, "So simple. Here is the tumult; there, the resolution; and at last a peace. In his music, Bach always sides with  goodness. That's why it's good to have religion, because of the peace at the end of the piece." How to best learn this Bach, I wondered? One must process all the voices at once. Next, separate and liken them to a string quartet. Give each a corresponding color. Violin I floats in heaven, and the bass is the earth. The piece sunk deeply into the loam, before rising forth the roam. I handed him the print of a Picasso painting, "Child with a Dove," and bid my teacher a journey with the wind (yi lu shun feng). Less than a year ago, I sent him a link of me playing violin by the window. Mr. Lin found me.

our moving castle, part 3

Meet Will Smith!

Friday, continued. Flew smoothly to Hangzhou, immersed in nice-ness, clean-ness, bright colors. Rode with S in town car to the real 外婆家 (grandmother's house), a glossy little apartment all familiar amenities and more, such as Teacher Katherine's luxury toilet with the massage function. First lunch: things are sweeter, darker, and smaller here, sort of like the people. S and I (after getting wi-fi) walked to McDonald's for a soft-serve, and then to the flower-and-fish market, a two-story bazaar that puts Yamagami's and their dinky cacti to shame. And... WE BOUGHT A BUNNY!
For one week only, of course. He was grayer than the rest, so we named him Will Smith (clarification: I named him Fresh Prince, but S insisted on the former). Despite the pee and poo, I loved our little friend who lived in the blue kitchen corner.

lakeside plum blossoms

Family walked cheerfully to West Lake. Brief spat over subway-side berries, but general glows all around at blossoming lakeside. So many people during that holiday weekend, and 75% of them came in couples, I wager. Magical ride in open-air car with S around the lake, with spring breeze, people-watching (story-formulating is the best fun there is), and memory digging. Then we went on a date, solo (I was reluctant, silly me), one of the best yet. How could it have been anything but the best, at this lake in the (relative) west? We settled by a window in the pretty teahouse for an omelette, noodle soup, and a red-bean-anointed ice mountain, accompanied by a pink sunset over lake. But nothing out-glowed the words. Afterward, we walked arm-in-arm along (and on!) the lake, as natural lights faded and orange ones came on, coloring the lake my favorite tones: warmth against gloom (of dark water of indefinite depths). Failed to hail taxi, headed home (followed random helpful 哥哥), then got a haircut!! Right outside the apartment complex! Hurrah, cute male hairdressers. S looks like A-GAN (Chinese for Forrest Gump), according to his mother. Much zzz. The evening's vesper bells: Dusty Blue, again, and Danzon No. 2.

Will Smith is a cage-free chicken!

Saturday began in the bunk-bed, and with and Hangzhou-style breakfast! Lots of flour and oil mmm. Set off for countryside tea farm: an outdoor pavilion nestled between mountains. Tables, round and ready for sippers, bearing pumpkin seeds and glasses. A circle of young adults, perhaps on retreat, studied the Bible at adjacent table. Tea-pickers, like straw dots, roaming the green corduroy hills. Scene set for reunion; soundtrack: a bit of shy violin (the first time I'd played in weeks). Al fresco lunch of pond creatures! Happy Will Smith hopped freely in the grass, and made many young pals, including Timmy's foot. Ate flowers and pink oreos incessantly.
But the tippy-toppest part of the day--perhaps of the trip--was a 2000+ step hike (I counted) (all the hiking trails I've been to in China are steep stone stairways). Number of hikers inversely proportionate to altitude. Eventually, it was just S and me, two walls of bamboo, gnatty pools, crisp air. Light green, stone gray. Climbed on and on.

one foot over the other

There is something heavenly about climbing a mountain together: your feet and lungs in sync, the occasional helping hand, the patience, the persistence. At the almost-peak, we danced to Howl's Moving Castle. Wind whirled the movie into a better reality. Exhausted but entirely lucid, entirely content. (Peed during descent--need to know). Thank you, God, for walking with us.
Dinner in a violently velvet banquet hall. Noteworthy nosh: 酒釀湯圓 (sweet rice wine and egg drop soup), durian pastries, logs of sesame rolls. Conversation fueled by vodka; A-GAN was prime tease target (baldness, Lasic eyes, HAR HAR). Ariel demonstrated Hangzhou dialect--I conclude that car sounds like hammer. Nice new friend: distant cousin, 15, scholar of soccer, beautiful penmanship, watched Forrest Gump before. A hand-shake goodbye. And at last, the cherry: a foot massage nearby, er, salon. Boy oh boy, I could not stop giggling: my lower limbs never been so limber-ized. S got a back massage that worsened his condition, hoho jolly jolly. Long (hour-long) story short*, our feet became baby butts. I collapsed like a jelly on the bunk-bed. To top off the day: a toothbrush dance with Samuel! *Foot potions: essential oil, milk, and ginger flowers. Scalding. Drinks: chamomile tea. TV: game shows, pseudoscientific infomercials. Masseuses: ripped.

West Lake at dusk

Sunday, church day. First, we hobbled to breakfast at shop known for its mantou, which were sold out by our 8:15 arrival. Delicious mi fen, wonton soup, and bao zi, speedily shipped and supped upon. Speed. Went neighbor's home for house church (more amens and sliding intonation. Fruit platters, communion). Sang Hallelujah! Hallelujah! for only a few minutes before being shuttled to glossyx100000 mall with ice skating and an IMAX theatre. Ariel and I floated into H&M, deliberated socks, and ate at Pizza (Jabbathe)Hut before digging into a positively squishy mango shaved ice at Apple Street, a donut shop. More fanciful browsing before shuttling home. Read The Good Earth for the afternoon with ill-ish Samuel and his dad in the living room, played Egyptian War (speed, speed). Samuel slaps like a maniac--very much in the zone. We "played" everyone else out of the room.
Nighttime! Ariel and I puttered to "InTime" shopping mall's food court for dinner. 'Twas a eater's heaven, with foodstuffs galore! First a stop into Watson's, the lovely turquoise pharmacy; marveled at imitation Baby Lips. Tonkatsu for Ariel, tomato eggs for me. Jealous of neighbor's fish and pickle clay pot. Cold Stone mud pie, which I demolished when Ariel was using the restroom (so, so sorry... Nothing, not even the bond of Tong Xue, survives my stomach's stirrings). At home, S was speaking to a new friend (same age, gap year; his father had passed away) that looked like Po, and entered high school for drawing. Accompanied S to "InTime" again, this time for his dinner. Japanese restaurant had never-ending tea on tap. Smoky arcade: spend 6 coins on Speed Racer. S is deft driver of fake cars.

Like loons, we walked to West Lake at 10 pm. 'Twas sprinkling (and the slithy toves...), but we were not deterred. Confidently, we headed "straight," and eventually found the lake, as deep and intimidating as the sea, black as obsidian, interrupted by only a few garish lights (most were out. Lakeside residents sleep at a decent hour). Strolled along, arm in familiar arm, assailed by a flower peddler (see melodramatic account on GDocs), lured by music to a wicker cafe for lakeside tea and pumpkin seeds. Lo and behold, we lost our money, and couldn't pay for the snack. Many sheepish stutters later, we left, having paid only half the yuan requested by the menu, all the money that we had. The night was deeply set, and we struggled to find a taxi. When we did, we were careful to disguise our moneylessness. The nervousness was palpable. Had taxi driver park inside complex; Samuel ran for money, and we sunk into homey sofas.