Unfinished letter

I dug through the paper mess on my desk and found this—an undated note, scribbled in haste and addressed to you—which must have been early this August, as I was sitting in the plane waiting for the take-off to Singapore. I wonder what I had in mind to say to you and didn't go on to say. In all probability just restlessness.

Dear Jude,

The plane has yet to take off. I suddenly have this strong urge to write to you. A young lad is standing down there from my window, blond hair ruffled, face pink and lovely with the sunlight on it. I wonder what he's doing in here, working as an airport staff, here in Hong Kong, somewhere he doesn't belong. On this bright morning (too bright, and too many leaden clouds in the sky). I am unprepared to be moved by youth--shadowless youth that one can do anything in/with. I take out my crimson pashmina and wind it round my shoulders, feeling ancient and ageless, as if this warm, dark wool piece is the perfect shield to the piercing, luring beam of that pink robustness. Youth, whatever happened to mine? "When was that innocence-lost experience?" M asked, months ago. "I don’t know. Probably the time when the chickens I reared were ruthlessly beheaded to make the New Year feast. I was three or four."

(some spaces later..) 云朵的影子映在山丘上, 似水波般流动. 揉烂的天空棉花, 我正向你飞去..

Letter to Jude from Jady

Dear Jude,

Addicted to Jewel again, indeed. In little times like this, when doubts about self worth, truth and deception quietly awake and nibble away at the heart, I go to Jewel, Jewel the sensual yet innocent one, wise yet wild, still long before one day turning up posing sluttish on a neon colored album. (No, I still can't quite get over that.) if I sound as if I have been pensive and absorbed in thoughts for days, I wasn't—I had to axe away that pile of work little by little, everyday for a long while now, before it becomes a monster and squashes me. I threw myself out there to be consumed by those notes and texts, with a blank mind, little enthusiasm and a nasty sense of urgency. Not reading the eclectic way any more (just slowly reading a wonderfully written French novel, Bonjour Tristesse by Francoise Sagan..hope you are going on to take francais!) not writing, not meeting up with friends and acquaintances (I missed to meet tree, and feel most regretful…most inexcusable.) shutting myself off but again not so thoroughly—every night when I sign on online my sight would linger over a certain name for a while too long, wishing, not even subconsciously and knowing too well the improbability, that a message would pop up and clarify some things. I didn't know I'd care this much, about tucked-away truths, of a possibly purely impulsive phrase and an ultimately commonplace and trivial incident, and even if the moment has long expired; but then again, I can't say I don't know myself through and through—it was only that certain self-knowledge is harder to confront, so I did know I'd be caring this much. And the boy is blameless, for, what would anyone say or do after all that happened? (There's no need to contradict this because there are still stretches of the story omitted and untold...and probably should remain so.) And I keep my reticence. Long silences suck things far and away, like vacuum, intangible, boundless, and dreadful; that dread is excruciating in just that—for fear of saying the wrong things, one says nothing, and for fear of turning a small disaster into a crisis by trying to mend it, one ties oneself down and does nothing, and let silences fill out the endless stretch of hours; it's more like thin shelled snails than happily feathered and warm blooded chickens; and I don't know what to think about snails. Or about hiding, or being frail and guardless. (now strangely, Esther's face surfaces and sneers that Esther sneer, says, yeah, go wallow in self-pity!) (I say to her, but I don't pity myself, and she scorns in return.) (Bravo Es, hardly anyone I know of could take up that pitiless cynical insolent devil role as you could. So stay in my fantasy a while…) anyway, I was at Luo's place for a while today. What took place in that very room almost three weeks ago seemed at once dreamlike and immediately erase-and-rewindable. I imagined the boy walking into the room any moment, saying a nonchalant hi, and everything would be back on track. But that's too dramatic to be true, of course, and the real me would probably be a real bastard again, picking up my bag and running off in nameless rage and self-inflicted sadness again. And those aren't even important any more—as soon as the rush of emotions was past each would realize that there are too much at stake—independence, freedom, peace of mind, deep secrets, and happiness itself—to exchange for some uncertain, short-lived thing that vaguely resembles love. Was it out of loneliness? Was it out of boredom? And by just how much need I reduce human emotions to categories and abstractions and reason before I could finally deal with them? That question is going to stay with me for a while...I'll rest my fatigued fingers and mind here..and post this on ss, an arbitrary something that might as well be imagined, impersonal, fictional..

Jady.

Time is an illusion, lunch time doubly so.

Dear Slapujude,
Still lingering here and not going for lunch. I haven't told you about this recent piece of advice half jokingly and half seriously given to me independently from different individuals—‘maybe you want to switch faculty?' Or, ‘come join us in Psychology/sociology/literature/whatever.' It's fun and heart warming to realize how people do recognize the other side (the non-science side) of me, but as an after-thought, it's frightening to register the fact that others see where my heart truly lies more clearly than I do. To look back and stare hard through the blurring mist of the years, I see a child me enthusiastically exploring life, biological life. She catches cicadas, keeps silkworms and bugs, takes care of chickens and ducks all year round, chases dogs and cats and pigs and geese and anything there is to chase. But she was not made to be a scientist even from then. If she was, she would probably have dissected animals when they died, or killed them for that purpose, in cold blood; she'd picked the legs of the bugs to examine them; she'd inject weird stuff into small mammals to test out little theories; or maybe not all the cruel tricks that only heartless boys would do, only gentle probing and inquiring would make a potential scientist. But it's all wrong for me. When the silkworm moths mated and died soon after, when the ducks and chickens died because they couldn't cope with urban life, when the dog was killed and cooked, when the green caterpillar was accidentally crushed on road, I burst out crying. It's Life I am in love with, the Force, the entanglements, the whole mystery of it. I wondered if cicadas are contented hermit-like creatures when they spent their seven dark years in the safety of the soil? I wondered if certain hens felt happiness when they fell asleep in my laps? It would be nice to learn that cicadas and mushrooms are made up of about the same stuff, and the function of the double eyelids of chickens. To get an idea of the interlinkages and the intricate details of the design of the Big Picture. But my life won't be at great loss without such knowledge.
So why did I choose science? Because I wish to know life, biological life, as it is, and probably approach Truth, if there is one, from that angle. Yes, yes, a classic, politically correct answer. But a truer, more well hidden answer (hidden from myself mainly) would be, because science is at best a second hobby of mine. Never make a favorite hobby into a career; never make a lover into a husband. So I am following exactly that, keeping arts as lover and science as husband. And the thrill and agony and anguish and fatigue and whatever comes of living a double life inevitably follows. The conflict of feelings is really tearing my heart apart, and this first term of university had suffered every consequence of that. I guess I am going to score quite well for all my arts courses, and am lucky if I discover I didn't flunk my organic chemistry after all. Life science has become an estranged husband, been neglected, and indifferent to the fact too. All the dusty tomes on the shelf…and the dream to go to the States has grown remote, if not yet out of reach. I planned my life, only to break out of the box and start another one. Why wouldn't I live true to my heart, go to some remote parts of the world, say Ceylon, say Eastern Europe, say Argentina, or Burma, and make a decent living teaching Chinese and middle school subjects, or open a petit restaurant serving genuine Hubei food, or a small bookshop like Kathleen Kelly does in You've got mail, and write, and travel if I am lucky to have money to spare? It's almost impossible at this point in time to visualize myself in a stern white lab coat pouring all my time into some very-probably-commercially-oriented experiment in a sterile lab, pressing buttons and writing reports that are of interest to less than 0.001% of humanity, and which may or may not open a Pandora's box and let hell break loose. I really don't know now. Maybe I should go on with my degree earning and become a science fiction writer later. The only worry is, after going through all the repackaging of the brains I'll never be able to write witty, crazy stuff again, never something like “time is an illusion, lunch time doubly so” from the Hitchhikers' guide to the galaxy by good old Douglas Adams…I'll send you the files some day.
To be continued. Now lunch.
Stickyjady.


评论/留言
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作者：Stickyjady　　时间：2004-11-28 15:11:56
Dear Slap, Feeling much better today. Chance encountered a friend on msn in the morning; had always known each other since primary school days through junior high, but hardly ever talked, which fortunately didn't prevent us from appreciating each other a lot. I appreciate her anyway, her personality, talents, what and how she went through in life (she lost her father to some terminal disease some years back. I only knew of it quite recently. C'est la vie.) She sent me pictures of a gorgeous stone stamp she carved as a birthday present for friend, and a photo of one of her paintings, which I'll show you someday. Munch-ish and beautiful. She's taking some acting and directing course (isn't she a physics major? I gotta confirm that…now you see a trend in the friends I make…all weirdoes! hahaha) and agonizing over a piece of acting assignment due tomorrow. Then I thought of our own individual pains and struggles, and how they are necessarily and importantly part of the human condition, the experience, the existence. For aspiring writers (ahem is that us?) sampling the whole range of emotions is, needless to say, essential. So it might be good that we constantly get rollercoaster rides of emotions right now, and I am grateful. Yesterday I was going to write a short poem-oid thing titled ‘shell-shocked, on the battlefield of Love' then dinner and tennis got in the way…maybe I'll write that tomorrow, maybe not until next shellshock comes. A mirage is beautiful in its own being, albeit a short and intangible one. Though it's impossible to capture it in our hands, it's undeniable that our mind' eye once and forever behold it.

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作者：Slappujudu　　时间：2004-11-28 0:49:43
Dear Stick, I tried to put myself in your shoes, imagining i was sitting in front of your computer, chatting to that very special someone, he not knowing any dissapointment but his own, not knowing a long shadow that bear a heart''s heaviness. i''m really sad knowing he couldn''t make it and of course you''re right saying he''s not to blame. are you that quilt i laid out waiting for a shower iin sunshine and i had to carry it back in realizing it was just a grey gloomy day. maybe there''ll be chance of sunshine some other day when u expect it least. i''m really glad something else like this slapstick blog makes you happy and masks your dissapointment even for a while. i''m really not good at consoling words, but yes! we have this blog.

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作者：Stickyjady　　时间：2004-11-27 17:05:35
Dear Slap, Remember what I told you about my December plans and how much it's a sun I run towards through the bleak months of October and November for the promise and warmth it holds? Now it turns out it's just another cold mirage of oasis in my desert. He can't make it. And I don't blame him, for we are no God of our own lives. We chatted on good humouredly, he said he felt disappointed and I consoled him and told him to think positively, and said nothing about my own disappointment, contained within like a good old stoic fool. I really felt relieved in the first few moments, that all my restlessness concerning the planning and practical aspects of travelling is gone. Maybe like the Faye robot in 2046 I am just way too slow in responding to stimulus. And only moments later did I feel a permeating melancholy/really black bile descending and enclosing me, and tears swore up and streamed down, all the time we are discussing translation, businesslike. I've been uncontrollably sobbing as it is for the past half hour, and thinking about what we talked about this morning, this newly born blog and our zest. Reading your post a smile managed to break through the thick mist of tears. Thanks dude, you unknowingly pulled me through a difficult time, and yes, we have the blog and slap&stick gonna rule.

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作者：Slappujudu　　时间：2004-11-27 14:49:22
dear stick, i hate this server, they lost the long post i just wrote these are the last few sentences i said, regardless of wat i wrote prior don''t worry about sicence, we''ll know when we get there. and i''m somehow so much happier now the blog''s come into being. maybe you''re enjoying it just as much and our life''s definitely gonna be tenfold better than jekyll n hyde, we''re slap n stick.

foreword

写在前面的话

亲爱的朱，不知哪一天你才会看到这个，但是没有关系。今天刚考完倒数第二门，剩下下星期一的哲学与电影，最喜欢也最恐惧的一科。下午本来该好好复习的时候，突然想整顿blog。每每心血来潮的时候就新注册一个blog，结果是最后手头抓着一堆blogs，每个都有个美好的开头，但日久就沮丧地发现，原来不过是些花花绿绿的空头支票，而那个开支票的人自己则时时在破产边缘挣扎。虽然本来就没看客，没教人对什么有什么期望，但还是总要叹一声惭愧。Es sama走了之后，把那个叫biology的dedicate了给她，信誓旦旦地说要常常写东西上去，最后却成了发牢骚和发作业的奇怪地方，渐渐两边也都没什么建设性的话了，简直一kittyblogger，够废。才决定把这个叫moviegoer的dedicate给你，就看到你的那篇日记（把我写成了野人的那篇），几个月前的，在此quote一下：

“Right now i have a wonderful idea of what I'd call 'email novel', it's not a novel strictly speaking. I'll kick it off, a paragragh, a line, some descriptive words, a string of nouns, objects, anything. say 'a bird was lying on the ground, no life, no motion. I wonder if it's a carefully sculpted figurine. But finally I noticed it's still breathing, its chest heaving a bit too fast... Maybe death's come to her... ', and i'll send the rubbish over and hu might edit or follow it up in any way she wants. it's anything and everything, so it's not a novel, more like patchwork of our minds. ok, i'll start experimenting soon... haha

What a wonderful idea indeed! How come you never mentioned that to me?! (and how come I switched to English all of a sudden?) Come to think of it we did have some fun, bizarre correspondence in the months of June and July, and somehow the flood turned into a trickle then evaporated into a wisp of nothingness after both of us returned and left our much beloved and now much missed motherland, one after the other. Sighs. What a fateful year 2004 has been. Turbulent, confusing, never ending and now ending all too fast. But back to blogging and your idea of an email novel—I think we might as well turn it into a bloggy, stream-of-consciousness, postmodern kind of fun if you are still on about the idea, thoughts? Now that exams are almost over I am going to try it out anyway, gonna exercise my flabby mind muscles and sunbathe the stagnant backwaters of the brain…Shall end here~~arthritis catching up with my right elbow; there had been all too many cold, damp nights in a row now, so much so I’ve lost count. Awaiting your witticism and wisdom~~