Category Archives: Writing

Being Humble Toward the Rice Plant

The “captions” of a photograph, with people, bending down, to harvest rice, translated…

I believe, that every time one bends down

It’s an accumulation of what is gained

This merely tells you, that even IF you get stepped on at work or whatever right now, you’re actually higher than the people who stepped on you, but, is it, really true???  We’ll just have to wait and see now, don’t we???

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Filed under Observations, Perspectives, Philosophies of Life, Values, Writing

The Ears, a Two-Lined Poem

Translated…

Sneaking into an unknown tunnel

Steal the secrets

And so, that would be a very clear way of describing the organ: ears, wouldn’t it?  And the person was able to express the purpose and the formation of the ear, using just THOSE two simple lines too.

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Filed under Creative Writing, Poetry, Writing

The Bird’s Business

A poem, translated…

Every morn they would

Start chirping outside my windows

And, started, digging holes inside my garden

Burying

My dreams

And so, that, would be how you woke up every morning, hearing the birds’ calls, it must be nice, to live that close to nature, to be able to enjoy nature’s own symphonies, but perhaps, you feel annoyed, because you’re still in deep sleep, when those birds start to chirp, chirp, chirp…

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Filed under Creative Writing, Life, Properties of Life, Wake Up Calls, Writing

To live

Jameson Wilds

Do you remember a time when things made a little more sense, when things didn’t seem so quite upside down?
A time when black was black and white was white and love meant love.
When a smile from a stranger made your day and the world around you just moved a little bit slower.
Now it seems as we live in a world of indifference and a society of carbon copies.
A place where a “good morning” or a “hi there” is greeted with a scowl from someone on their phone or a blank look of unfamiliarity.
The world moves too fast now and this escalator of life just keeps taking us along and there’s no real place to step off.
Sometimes I just want to look over the edge and then look a little more until the heels of my feet are raised slightly and at that moment there’s…

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Filed under Choices, Coping Mechanisms, Cost of Living, Life, Perspectives, Properties of Life, Values, Writing

Predictions

Uncertainties About the Future……aren’t We All!!!

spanishwoods

photo by Sylvia photo by Sylvia

Future Isabella, what can you tell us about the coming winter?
Will it be bitter, the bleak days echoing the quiet,
white stillness of the cold?
Or will it be mild and mellow as the oak trees bring
forth acorn tales to be told?

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Filed under Perspectives, Planning for the Future, Poetry, Story-Telling, Values, Writing

When the Name You Responded to is No Longer Yours

When the name you responded to is no longer yours, how’d that happen?  You should KNOW your name by now, after all, you’d carried that same name, for, uh???  Your ENTIRE lives, didn’t you?  So how come, just now, you can’t even respond to your own name anymore??? When the name you responded to is no longer yours, this, is just ONE of many things that you’d ended up, losing through time, there’s NO doubt, and soon, when you stare into the mirror, you will, shockingly discover: how come there’s a stranger, copying EVERY last one of my moves???

When the name you responded to is no longer yours, there’s NO way to reverse this process, because you’re on your ways, to losing, everything you’d ever known, because that, is how the years had an effect, on your mind.  When the name you responded to is no longer yours, you may feel that it isn’t normal, but, you’ll get used to it, after all, you’d eventually become Mr./Mrs./Ms. So-and-So………

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Filed under Awareness, Being Exposed, Dementia/Deterioration of the Mind, Despair, Loss, Old Age, Writing

I Love Seeing Them, Father and Son, Holding Hands

Memories, shared, by the father and son, they’re so very close to one another too, and, this, is a very hard to come by parent-child relationship. Translated…

The elderly can’t hear so well anymore, Zu-Guan was more than patient, with his lips close to his father’s ear, reported live to his father, who’s currently speaking, what, is being said…

Since I could remember, I’d ever held my father’s hands.

Even a couple of years before he died, when I took him to get his hair trimmed, accompanying him across the intersections, I’d only wrapped my arms around his arms, and stroked his loosened muscles through his clothes, and feel the temperatures of his body through his shirt.

When I discovered, him, a young man, a little over thirty, I’m thinking? From the very beginning, had held on to his ninety-year-old, blind father’s hand, my heart, was hurting now, from being pounded on.

Helping You Hear, Holding Your Hand

His name, Zu-Guan Yang. Based off of my speculation, a little bit past thirty.  When he was just a newborn, his sixty-year-old father became blind, and his mother left the house.

Zu-Guan’s father, with the pseudonym of “Mason”, originally named Ping-Chun Yang, is blind and elderly, and still he wrote every single day, not only was he able to manage a novel of six hundred thousand characters in just six years, he’d also won the Golden Drinking Cup Prize and the Prize for Novel Writing, and cranked out “The Story of Wild Grapes”, “The Tears of Youth”, “A Rash Man”, along with the philosophical collection “The New Me Idealism”, “This, is What Confucius Said”. With the seventeen years, he’d managed the “Mason on Literature” with 250,000 characters; what’s more amazing was, two years later, he’d written, “This, is How Laotzu Stated it”; and heard, that he has a new book out next year too.

What fueled to Mason’s writing? Could it be what he’d said, “The love for literature, ‘til death”?  If he’d led an ordinary life, with an unsettled mind, could he have let his own thoughts soar in the darkness, to allow his pen to fly over the papers?

I think, his son, Zu-Guan was his primary assistant, to help him become such a well-published writer.

Zu-Guan would check to see if there’s still ink in his father’s pen, and, guided the ruler that tied to the pen to steady itself, so it won’t slip off, helped his father proofread, type, collect the essays, and, carried his father’s thick manuscripts, to knock on the doors of the publishers……..

This young man in how he interacted with the world around, is very well-rounded, I wondered, how it is, that Mason had taught his son? Maybe, it’s a side effect from my journalism days, before I find the answers, I’d used a magnifying glass, to examine Mason’s clean face, along with Zu-Guan’s face too.

The elderly can no longer hear so well, Zu-Guan patiently transferred what was said, reported it live, to his father, who’s talking now, what’s being said. The father would prod, had his voice would get very loud, and, that hint of apologetic would come up to Zu-Guan’s face, and, get close to his father’s ear, and answered him.  After the father understood what was going on currently, he’d squinted his eyes, like a philosopher, thinking.  His father’s palms were faced up, Zu-Guan’s, down, gently, and patted his father, to tell him, “No matter what, I’m here with you.”

And this, is the closeness of a father and a son, which, is still very rare these days, and, can you imagine the kindness that the father must’ve shown the son when he was younger, for the son to reciprocate it back to him now???

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Filed under Family Matters, Life, Observations, Old Age, Parent-Child Interactions, Socialization, Translated Work, Writing