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.