What wonderful virtue does the moon possess that allows it to rise each evening? Whether in Nairobi or Shenzhen, I see the same moon in the sky, just as I see the same sun rise and set in either city. If they are not the same, how many thousands of suns and moons trace a…… Continue reading The Peony (or How Long Is The Path From Death To Birth?)
A Reply Sent From The Southwest Expedition (or How Did Time Begin, And Why Does It End When One Dreams?) When I was a child time vanished, or perhaps nothing ever changed. When I made my first deep breath, the baobabs and acacia trees of the savannah and the tea and coffee bushes of the…… Continue reading A Reply Sent From The Southwest Expedition
I do not remember the first word I said. It was not Baba, because my father was rarely around, and didn’t much like me (from what I have heard). It may have been Ma or Mama (but I only say that because of popular convention). Our childhood shapes our adulthood, and therefore if I extrapolate…… Continue reading A Little Rain
Africa is a place of sublime contrasts and savage indifference. To view for the first time a lion hunt and kill, muscles rippling in the sun, to see it pick up the body of an oryx with just its teeth – and all beneath the great blue bowl of a sky that seems to stretch …… Continue reading Spearing the Fish
The Qingming holiday, otherwise known as the Tomb Sweeping or Pure Brightness holiday, has just ended in China. It is a time to commemorate one’s ancestors and typically falls in early April. After the festival, the temperature often rises, along with rainfall and much ploughing and sowing. It is a time of sadness as well…… Continue reading Willow
In late March, just as the last cool winds escaped Shenzhen and bonded with the mist over the South China Sea, I soared over the streets. The dry golden leaves of a long Autumn were finally falling – perhaps the only happening in Shenzhen that was behind the times. With every violent gust of wind,…… Continue reading Poem Without a Title 20
How I long for those days of pens and ink, when calligraphy ruled, and bits and bytes were things around a dining table. 来是空言去绝踪， lái shì kōng yán qù jué zōng 月斜楼上五更种。 yuè xié lóu shàng wǔ gēng zhǒng 梦为远别啼难唤， mèng wéi yuǎn bié tí nán huàn 书被催成墨末浓。 shū bèi cuī chéng mò mò nóng 蜡照半笼金翡翠， là zhào bàn lóng jīn fěi cuì 麝熏微度绣芙蓉。 shè xūn wēi dù xiù fú róng 刘郎已恨蓬山远， liú láng yǐ hèn péng shān yuǎn 更隔蓬山一万重。 gēng gé péng shān yī wàn zhòng Arrive is just an empty word, you leave without a…… Continue reading Poem Without a Title 12
