Do you believe in dreams?
Actually, my dreams are filled with metaphor. Since when did all these begin?
The furthest one I can remember is about my mom. One night I saw her standing far away from me, even so, her face was so clear that I could see every detail. Between us was a transparent wall of time, I was not able to come forward anymore. She was there, hands on the wall, trying to speak. I saw her lips moving but I couldn't hear anything. Suddenly I realised that, those perished ones, they were sealed in the elapsed time forever, just like crystals. Once you lost them, you lost them forever.
Then in another dream, I went back to my primary school age. I met someone in class, thinking, Oh no, this is not correct, he is not my primary school classmate, I didn't meet him until middle school! Later it came the time of taking graduation photo. I was late. When I arrived, everyone had already stood in row, on railroad tracks. I stopped to pick off some flowers besides the rails, but to my surprise, these flowers are made of colourful stone!
At the crack of dawn, I passed a window which had light in it, saw a daily living scene of my sister and her man. Someone was chasing me. I just kept running, after a long way I reached the riverside and there were boats mooring side by side along the river. I jumped from one boat to another, finally came to the another of the river. A man was waiting for me there. He reached out one hand to hold me while I jumped down from the last boat. No! I gave an outcry. You have a pistol in the other hand! The man withdrew his hand, aiming straight at my back.
I was browbeat into closing my mouth by a green snake, unwillingly. Well, just pretend to obey it for the moment, but the truth must be told, I thought. Suddenly, that green snake appeared from the brick wall and wrapped around my neck. I was suffocated and forced to surrender. Later, I managed to cage the snake into a container, and went to seek help from others. But when I came back, one colleague had released the captured snake.
After Nan died in the poultry plant fire, I dreamed of the fire scene the other day. In that dream, I was there, in the workroom, when the world fell into darkness suddenly. I dreamed of the closed door, I saw people rushing around in fear, I felt the desperation-the desperation I could never forget, the desperation I would never forgive.
In a delivery room, I was under epidural anaesthesia. The midwife didn't wear gloves. How can you touch me without wearing gloves? I protested aloud. But it seemed that she didn't hear me. Soon the baby was put into the incubator. Two men were leaning on the incubator, smoking cigarettes. You can't smoke in front of my baby! I said. One man said sorry and left, but the other said: There is a little left-I'll finish it soon. I was so angry on hearing this.
Another day, I was climbing a steep hill. There was a little boy climbing in front of me, and that was my kid. He ascended so fast that soon I was left behind. Hey, kid, wait for mom! Don't go too fast. I called out. He didn't stop for me. Then he reached the hill, disappeared.
A young woman was about to fell from a high place. There were two group of people holding cushions to save her life, and I was in one group. I was looking up anxiously, hoping she would fell onto the cushion I was holding so she could survive, as well as fearing that we could not bear the impact once she fell. While I was waiting, she felt facing up the sky, gracefully, not towards any of the two cushions. I closed my eyes and clapped my ears with the ground, not bearing to hear the crash.
In another dream, I heard Jesus saying, God is love. I was not surprised at knowing that he had always lived as a mortal. But, God is love, this faith was so strong that it made him eternal.
Friday, November 22, 2013
Saturday, November 16, 2013
Driving into American History, 2
Actually, my California trip is part of my journey which I called "Into the West", because apart from driving by myself in the south California area, it also included the group tour around the vast intermountain region, Rocky mountains and great plains. Here I'll just record the part that reminded me of something in American history.
In the first a few days, I stayed in San Diego. As the birth place of California, San Diego still has a strong Spanish colonial atmosphere, which can be seen from those mediterranean-style buildings. After spending hours lingering along the seashore and passing the long-stretched naval base several times, I went to visit the USS Midway. If you have ever watch the drama Miss Saigon, you can imagine the scene that the helicopter took off from the U.S. embassy and flew towards this aircraft, after The Last Night of the World. Yes, Midway is the one performed the task Operation Frequent Wind in 1975. It was also sent to Jeju Island in Kwangju Massacre and served in the Persian Gulf War in 1991. Now all the dust of all the events has settled, Midway is at its anchor by the shore and has become part of the city's aerial view, like a retired veteran. When the kids looking around this giant with curiosity, they may not be able to feel the sorrow of parting and fear of death of those people who once boarded it. Hopefully, they would never have to experience that kind of feeling, and this is exactly the aim of attempt for our generation.
Then we spent three days on the notorious California State Route 1, and arrived San Francisco Bay in the evening, dust covered and exhausted. After a refreshing shower, we went to China Town to fill our stomachs. The moment I open the door of the car, a nasty smell made me wrinkled up my nose, then I noticed the sewage and garbage on the street. The empty stomachs urged us to move on, so we walked in a restaurant, ordered and waited for dinner. Two young men and one young woman seated around another table, talking in English with very good accent. The older young man was trying to analyse some situation for the other two, and giving them some directions. They were talking with fluent English, but their way of thinking and dealing with people was typically Chinese, so I thought that they should be Chinese descendants. Which generation of immigrants were they? I didn't know. But the feeling was that the history of Chinese migration appeared in an appreciable way here and now. Again, I found myself get lost in time. From my own experience of life, I can fully understand how the first generation immigrants work hard to make a living as aliens-no matter what kind of job they do, they have to support the family while trying to accommodate themselves into a new environment. But I am baffled why after all these years, the Chinatown area is still filled with sewage and garbage, even the whole San Francisco has been reshaped once and again after the 1906 and 1989 earthquakes? What is the meaning of life if you have to live in the same environment generation after generation?
During the group trip, the greatest thing for me was having the chance to see some sites related to native Americans, such as Cheyenne, Dakota and the Sioux, Little Big Horn. The tribes involved here were mainly those who once inhabited the Great Plains. While talking with an native American in the Crazy Horse museum, I was moved by his saying"Our ancestors were arose from this continent, so do we. Native Americans will be guardians of this land as long as anyone of us still alive." Many people just see the westerners' spreading on the new continent as a triumph of civilisation over ignorance, to some extent, this seems to be the fact, since even native Americans are enjoying the convenience brought by the modern inventions. The question is simply that the price of this modernisation is too heavy to bear. For native Americans, the change of life is not worthy of cerebrating at all. If today's Americans cannot realize native Americans' situation and their feelings today, but to insist on the expelling of native Americans as part of the so-called Manifest Destiny, then there's no doubt that these people are flattering themselves by their own ignorance and proud.
Finally, let's back to California again. After sending everyone off from LA, I went on my lonely journey. This was to fulfil a promise for myself, a date with the Sierra Nevada. While driving for hundred after hundred miles in the desert, what accompanied me was a piece of CD. Maybe only under that circumstance, did I get overwhelmed by Morning from Peer Gynt, and found Clair de Lune so comforting. Also, I'll forever remember those sequoias in Yosemite Valley, the giants of stratosphere, they stood there, from the time when there was no me in the world, and will be there after my farewell. I guess they had also witnessed John Muir's life as a voluntary ranger. For Mt. Whitney, I stayed nearby for two days. I could see the peak when I lifted my eyes from Lone Pine, but after drove half way up to the camping site and began the Whitney Trail, it hided behind mountains and only would show up occasionally. After two hours' climbing, I ended up by Lone Pine Lake, not having a permit to challenge the peak. Actually, I was not well prepared for such an over-10-hour's climbing. Two hours was good for me, since I've seen the face of Mt. Whitney for myself, and I had nothing to regret.
On my way back to San Diego, I stopped in Death Valley to taste the salty soil and stayed in Palm Spring for 18 hours, just have time to visit the local art museum. I was glad to see both places have an introduction of native Americans' life in these area, this is what should be done.
There was too much that worthy to be recorded for all these days, but this time I just do it as a memorandum.
In the first a few days, I stayed in San Diego. As the birth place of California, San Diego still has a strong Spanish colonial atmosphere, which can be seen from those mediterranean-style buildings. After spending hours lingering along the seashore and passing the long-stretched naval base several times, I went to visit the USS Midway. If you have ever watch the drama Miss Saigon, you can imagine the scene that the helicopter took off from the U.S. embassy and flew towards this aircraft, after The Last Night of the World. Yes, Midway is the one performed the task Operation Frequent Wind in 1975. It was also sent to Jeju Island in Kwangju Massacre and served in the Persian Gulf War in 1991. Now all the dust of all the events has settled, Midway is at its anchor by the shore and has become part of the city's aerial view, like a retired veteran. When the kids looking around this giant with curiosity, they may not be able to feel the sorrow of parting and fear of death of those people who once boarded it. Hopefully, they would never have to experience that kind of feeling, and this is exactly the aim of attempt for our generation.
Then we spent three days on the notorious California State Route 1, and arrived San Francisco Bay in the evening, dust covered and exhausted. After a refreshing shower, we went to China Town to fill our stomachs. The moment I open the door of the car, a nasty smell made me wrinkled up my nose, then I noticed the sewage and garbage on the street. The empty stomachs urged us to move on, so we walked in a restaurant, ordered and waited for dinner. Two young men and one young woman seated around another table, talking in English with very good accent. The older young man was trying to analyse some situation for the other two, and giving them some directions. They were talking with fluent English, but their way of thinking and dealing with people was typically Chinese, so I thought that they should be Chinese descendants. Which generation of immigrants were they? I didn't know. But the feeling was that the history of Chinese migration appeared in an appreciable way here and now. Again, I found myself get lost in time. From my own experience of life, I can fully understand how the first generation immigrants work hard to make a living as aliens-no matter what kind of job they do, they have to support the family while trying to accommodate themselves into a new environment. But I am baffled why after all these years, the Chinatown area is still filled with sewage and garbage, even the whole San Francisco has been reshaped once and again after the 1906 and 1989 earthquakes? What is the meaning of life if you have to live in the same environment generation after generation?
During the group trip, the greatest thing for me was having the chance to see some sites related to native Americans, such as Cheyenne, Dakota and the Sioux, Little Big Horn. The tribes involved here were mainly those who once inhabited the Great Plains. While talking with an native American in the Crazy Horse museum, I was moved by his saying"Our ancestors were arose from this continent, so do we. Native Americans will be guardians of this land as long as anyone of us still alive." Many people just see the westerners' spreading on the new continent as a triumph of civilisation over ignorance, to some extent, this seems to be the fact, since even native Americans are enjoying the convenience brought by the modern inventions. The question is simply that the price of this modernisation is too heavy to bear. For native Americans, the change of life is not worthy of cerebrating at all. If today's Americans cannot realize native Americans' situation and their feelings today, but to insist on the expelling of native Americans as part of the so-called Manifest Destiny, then there's no doubt that these people are flattering themselves by their own ignorance and proud.
Finally, let's back to California again. After sending everyone off from LA, I went on my lonely journey. This was to fulfil a promise for myself, a date with the Sierra Nevada. While driving for hundred after hundred miles in the desert, what accompanied me was a piece of CD. Maybe only under that circumstance, did I get overwhelmed by Morning from Peer Gynt, and found Clair de Lune so comforting. Also, I'll forever remember those sequoias in Yosemite Valley, the giants of stratosphere, they stood there, from the time when there was no me in the world, and will be there after my farewell. I guess they had also witnessed John Muir's life as a voluntary ranger. For Mt. Whitney, I stayed nearby for two days. I could see the peak when I lifted my eyes from Lone Pine, but after drove half way up to the camping site and began the Whitney Trail, it hided behind mountains and only would show up occasionally. After two hours' climbing, I ended up by Lone Pine Lake, not having a permit to challenge the peak. Actually, I was not well prepared for such an over-10-hour's climbing. Two hours was good for me, since I've seen the face of Mt. Whitney for myself, and I had nothing to regret.
On my way back to San Diego, I stopped in Death Valley to taste the salty soil and stayed in Palm Spring for 18 hours, just have time to visit the local art museum. I was glad to see both places have an introduction of native Americans' life in these area, this is what should be done.
There was too much that worthy to be recorded for all these days, but this time I just do it as a memorandum.
Friday, November 8, 2013
Driving into American History,1
During my staying in US, I did a number of long-distance travels. As an old saying goes,"He travels the fastest who travels alone", most of the time, I traveled by myself and I really enjoyed the process.
My first experience began at Mt. Rainier National Park. There the zigzag mountain road lead me to Paradise after half a hour, where I hiked till Muir Snowfield, about 7300 ft in that season. At the moment of reaching the beginning of Pebble Creek, I had the same feeling of Mo, who is a fictitious character in one of my stories many years ago, just as if I once dreamed of this scene. In the following days, I drove around Mt. Rainier from west to northeast, to Sunrise. I stopped on the way from time to time, thinking,"What a wonderland!"By the evening I was in Packwood, filling the gas tank. It was Labor Day holiday, and there was a flourishing farmer's market in town. Seeing people trading in the background of snow-capped mountains and forests, that was a miraculous feeling of reality.
After my coming back from Seattle, I read the story of John Muir, together with his book-The Mountains of California, and was deeply moved by his description of the landscape in the book, which was accurately and vividly, with respect and love to the nature. Meanwhile, when visiting the Reynolda House Museum, I learnt the Reynolds family history. Something touched my heart while it comes to Smith Reynolds's son's death, the 17 year old young man perished when he was climbing Mount Whitney. I decided to visit California's mountains-this decision could be a call from angel, or it could from devil-but anyway, I must go and see for myself.
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