I'm beginning another story. This is just the prelude.
Title: (To be determined)
What kind of key can lock a promise forever?
What kind of song can be sung forever?
After many many years later, when white hair becomes visible to the eye, will you still remember the promise that we'll forever know each other?
If I do want a forever, how many years can you give me?
After the flower blossoms, how long would it take for its petals to fall?
How far do the birds have to fly, so that we no longer can see them?
If young age lasts only one blink of eye, when do the loved ones have to leave each other?
We are all looking for a spring that will last forever.
We are all hoping for an everlasting promise.
But a beautiful dream can easily shatter.
Loved ones can easily languish
And eventually face each other with tears...
Friday, June 17, 2011
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Chapter 2: This Night
This Night I sat down to draw again. Nothing came. I really wanted to do the drawing. I wanted to draw a landscape with butterflies. I promised a friend I would do this one for her.
No more ink. This pen, emptied of ink, suddenly reminded me of my desolate heart. I am sitting here in this very dark room. I have music on. I began to fight with my inner-self again. What is happening to my hand? Why can I not draw? I fell asleep. I seemed to have slept for a very long time.
No more ink. This pen, emptied of ink, suddenly reminded me of my desolate heart. I am sitting here in this very dark room. I have music on. I began to fight with my inner-self again. What is happening to my hand? Why can I not draw? I fell asleep. I seemed to have slept for a very long time.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
simple
I wonder why it is so hard for me to think simple and write simple. I think my brain is filled with too much unnecessary junk that needs to be deleted with the computer keyboard delete button. UGH!
Book
I would like to read a new and interesting book. Any recommendations? A book that is inspirational and easy to read.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
The Artist from Suzhou, China
Setting: End of War War II China, Inner China-Suzhou,
Between water and clouds situates the home of an artist named Han Yu. He sees himself living with nature, not people. This home he lives in is located on the outskirts of a beautiful city in Suzhou, China. A small simple home constructed with wood. Inside the home contains all his canvases of landscapes of places he has traveled to on his bike.
The other day Han Yu was sitting gazing at the distant mountains painting. It was a cloudy day. No sign of any sunlight. A thunderstorm suddenly roared. So reveled in his painting, Han Yu was not a least bit disturbed by the unpleasant sounds of nature. When the first raindrops dripped on his artwork, he was suddenly awakened from painting. He quickly grabbed his canvas and easel and threw all his art tools into his bag. He threw the bag around and across his shoulders and tied his canvas and easel to the back of his bike. Grabbing on to the front handles of his bike, he threw his right leg over the seat, had both feet firm on both pedals, and rode away to find the nearest tea shop to seek shelter from the rain.
As he rode quickly without caring what was ahead of him, he suddenly saw an oncoming bike, also riding hastily. Too late. Both bikes collided. As Han Yu got up to help the other cyclist, he realized he had bumped into a lady. As he held the lady carefully with his arms,........
(I need help with continuing this story that is going nowhere. Still need to describe the kind of clothing Chinese people wore around mid 1940s.)
Between water and clouds situates the home of an artist named Han Yu. He sees himself living with nature, not people. This home he lives in is located on the outskirts of a beautiful city in Suzhou, China. A small simple home constructed with wood. Inside the home contains all his canvases of landscapes of places he has traveled to on his bike.
The other day Han Yu was sitting gazing at the distant mountains painting. It was a cloudy day. No sign of any sunlight. A thunderstorm suddenly roared. So reveled in his painting, Han Yu was not a least bit disturbed by the unpleasant sounds of nature. When the first raindrops dripped on his artwork, he was suddenly awakened from painting. He quickly grabbed his canvas and easel and threw all his art tools into his bag. He threw the bag around and across his shoulders and tied his canvas and easel to the back of his bike. Grabbing on to the front handles of his bike, he threw his right leg over the seat, had both feet firm on both pedals, and rode away to find the nearest tea shop to seek shelter from the rain.
As he rode quickly without caring what was ahead of him, he suddenly saw an oncoming bike, also riding hastily. Too late. Both bikes collided. As Han Yu got up to help the other cyclist, he realized he had bumped into a lady. As he held the lady carefully with his arms,........
(I need help with continuing this story that is going nowhere. Still need to describe the kind of clothing Chinese people wore around mid 1940s.)
The Poet's Thoughts...
The poet is about to begin this journey before the first sight of dawn.
The wind blows across his right shoulders. The moon is still apparent at the other side of the sky.
Whether it is night or day, the poet does not want to be trapped in between.
The poet is carefree.
The poet's heart is free of control. The poet decides his(her) destination.
The feelings of chaos, self-esteem, good, and bad all do not matter.
As long as there is compassion, the poet is not afraid of strangeness.
No matter how high the sky, the poet's happiness will surpass it.
To the poet, Happiness is the most important.
No matter how strong the wind is, it will not blow away the poet's compassion.
Every village or town the poet passes by, the poet will greet cold and warm people alike.
No matter how tough or frustrating life is, the poet will live strong and persevere.
The poet admits and understands to develop compassion for everyone takes time.
Tears and laughter are just part of the process.
The wind blows across his right shoulders. The moon is still apparent at the other side of the sky.
Whether it is night or day, the poet does not want to be trapped in between.
The poet is carefree.
The poet's heart is free of control. The poet decides his(her) destination.
The feelings of chaos, self-esteem, good, and bad all do not matter.
As long as there is compassion, the poet is not afraid of strangeness.
No matter how high the sky, the poet's happiness will surpass it.
To the poet, Happiness is the most important.
No matter how strong the wind is, it will not blow away the poet's compassion.
Every village or town the poet passes by, the poet will greet cold and warm people alike.
No matter how tough or frustrating life is, the poet will live strong and persevere.
The poet admits and understands to develop compassion for everyone takes time.
Tears and laughter are just part of the process.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
At the piano.....
An Enemy that Became My Best Friend
Only the piano is left here to talk to me...
It asked, "What is wrong?"
I responded by placing my fingers on the black and white keys.
It asked, "You want to talk?"
I took a deep breath and sighed.
It said, "I'll listen to you."
Then I began to play a piece expressing my anger and pain.
It asked, "You must be in agony."
I continued to play vehemently and pathetically until I hit the final chords.
It then said, "I will always be here as your friend and listen to you. Calm down and wipe your tears. The light will shine your way soon."
Many years ago, I had stage freights. I didn't like being under the spotlight and watched by a sea of eyes. This may be the integral reason why I had never won a single piano competition. Every time I performed on stage, my fingers were always bound to trip over a black or white key, and I would hit wrong notes. Panic and embarrassment would follow. The demons inside of me fought with my inner fear, until I let out my anger. "Mom, I want to quit!" I shouted, as I rushed out of the competition with tears gushing out of my eyes. She ignored me. "Just because you never had the chance to play piano, doesn't mean I have to play!" Again, I was ignored. My piano teacher only encouraged me to fix my mistakes and move forward. I am still unsure what force had me persevere and not give up this king of all instruments. At age five, I saw the piano as an irritating beast that must be quickly destroyed, but now I see it as my best friend--a valuable treasure that can never be demolished. It lives inside my heart, soul, and mind.
I didn't see this transition from a mediocre pupil to a serious musician coming as I boarded the plane to Italy. My mom signed me up for an intensive summer music camp that my piano teacher organized in a small seaside town in southern Italy. As soon as I landed and checked in the hotel, I immediately noticed the breathtaking view of the azure Mediterranean in front of me. I thought to myself, "What a beautiful place to learn music."
"Okay! Let's get going! Drop your luggages and we must head to the school and start our lessons!" shouted the teacher. "There's no time to waste! We have a performance tomorrow!"
"Oh goodness, here we go again...," I muttered to myself.
"Everyone needs to hug their instruments and practice for at least five hours. You will receive an hour of lesson from one of us instructors. Remember to check the schedule for the time and place of your lesson. Don't be late!"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)