Fragments / 碎片
Fictional, meaningless writing practice. 虚构的，无意义的写作练习
I sat quietly in a room with my life, decisions, opportunities, and moments, like shining crystals, with the occasional light from distant car high beams slanting in, moving slowly on the walls. “It’s the time to make a deal. Take the ballot in your hand and say, what you want to exchange with us”, they asked. I said, “a bag of fruit I bought from the market, for your later presence in my life.”
Cryptocurrency said: “I never thought I was currency until a man misnamed me. I was supposed to be a legendary story, an inference on a piece of paper that no one had arrived at. You weren’t supposed to climb into God’s place. We saw each other with all four eyes.”
You have to believe that the fact that your existence is indelible. Every day that passes, you produce as much as you want to erase. Everyone lives for their respective secrets, being forced to take on the duty of guarding them, ensuring that they will be sealed in the wreckage of history. Even if one day they are salvaged by our descendants and discovered, stacked in a museum’s storeroom. We laugh, their physical existence does not disguise the demise of meaning. We are pinned forever elsewhere.
There are countless details in my memory, the coldness of touching the porthole of an airplane, waking up from a nap and facing the hidden door, the countless times I pulled open the green or pink curtains, the cracks in the ceiling, the feeling of unscrewing the cap of a medicine bottle, the time, the heartbeat, the prelude to the program on the radio. Details come to my shore like waves. I told her about these recurring details, and she took some photos, listened with fascination, and said, “I like the way you resurrected them.” Talking about resurrection, I had to talk to her again about the reliability of human memory. About 20 years ago, I started an experiment on a whim that I had to remember the light green veins of the sycamore leaves I saw at this moment in the sunlight. I want to know how long I can remember it in the end. So I remember this moment until now, even the child in front of me carrying toys at that moment, and my grandfather is still holding my hand.
I, a space chef, shouldn’t be stuck in a cycle of whether to cook rice or cook dishes first.
See how I can talk nonsense: The chef who owns the season never writes
You speak out this knowledge that no one knows, like a warrior emerging from a jungle where no one has survived.
A plate with corners
The education level of addition
Opinion / 观点
Immature Opinions based on observations. 不成熟的观点
Looking forward to the next year, many things will become unsustainable, the zero covid policy of China, the Russian-Ukrainian war, and my life in Pittsburgh. I can hardly imagine the world and my life remaining static next winter. So much of the structure is like that, quietly going on, but you know it’s obviously going to fall apart.
Those who stand at the turning point of history do not know it, and those who are at the scene of history do not discover it, even in wartime, still quiet and interspersed with a bit of danger. The people on the stage are changing again and again. We read history books, measure history with our lives, and resent that we were not born in a significant era. The senses we have adapted to survive in the law of the jungle are too sensitive — they last only for a moment.
Unnamed Things / 未命名的事物
Try to name these unnamed things in my life. 试图为生活中那些未命名的事物命名
It must be interesting to see what a man thinks of when he goes to pick up his wife from the hospital on a rainy afternoon. He must have thought of his past of playing marbles with his childhood playmates while turning to his partner to deliver the news that the child had come home safely. Perhaps the brief regain of power, the idea of sneaking some additional cigarettes and alcohol into the house would pop up, and ball games and such, at the beginning of short or long days of caring for her.