Skip to main content

Tales from the Down Under: #5- Wind Always Blows When the Sun Shines

Not hesitating to spare your boredom, I commence the journal by harping on weathers. Today's weather as it was: drafty; sun splashed down streams of golden rays which one can only witness under an Egyptian sky; clear-skied; winds occasionally seeped through the thin clouds and cast the spell. One's outdoor apparel inevitably came to collision with the aforesaid weather report, and a scruffy outfit was embarrasingly put upon as if providing a desultory answer to an unsolved question.

I deem it the kind of event that will most put you into jeopardy, the event in which you accept the kindness of the cordial sunshine and even bathe under it before the evil wind put its nail in your coffin. In a dog-eat-dog world I've been trained not to be fooled by anybody's deceptive smile. Everything seems to work otherwise now, for the determined side is never the side shown on the flip of a coin. So why bother flipping coins? I learned my lesson last year that the most lighthearted course which made you feel like sipping coffee on a sofa was actually the course that eventually, and out of nowhere, inverted your sofa and robbed off your coffee. I sometimes wonder the incident might result in the professor reclining on the sofa all of a sudden and set everything out flying on the air. No precise description needed for the aforesaid.

Part of my mission for studying in Auckland is to learn dealing with the world, at least, world on its pit. It is something that I've yet master upon and while bumping and blundering my way through, I am still constantly reminded of my failure of doing somebody/something justice, so far as to overlook the genuine goodness in the world. There the nagging question raised: is it the genuine goodness or rather, the surplus of goodness that someone claimed to still exist in this world?

That is why, the medium of dealing with the world I've yet to procure, and the whole notion to me is no more than a smokescreen of vagueness. You are ordered to add a coat to take precaution against the furtive wind yet the image of people with tees swarm pass you. The wind trails off in the wake of some guilty dodger, and the sun threatens to put you in its baking tray. There you walk yourself like a spectral spaz, and the leaves even refuse to serenade.

The confusions and frustations I've encountered whenever I'm on my way to a glorious exploration, have driven me back to my cockpit without mercy. Something I learned in my critical theory study, that a story embodies the inestimable power of the weak. The weaklings tell stories to make themselves stronger and eventually triumphs over the world they create in their mind. A pathetic theory really, but I opened my book and forgot the troubles.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Honore Daumier

“If you shut up truth and bury it under ground, it will but grow, and gather to itself such explosive power that the day it bursts through it will blow up everything in its way.”- Émile Zola
Exited HonorĂ© Victorin Daumier, 10 February 1879, in an impoverishment that many of his contemporaries, especially his foes, would have thought was his long overdue retribution- the painter was blind, heavily in debt, and later relegated to a pauper’s grave. His friends, upon visiting his resting place, would, I imagine, see it a chance to admonish their children: “Now that’s a lesson for you cheeky devils whose tongues rattle off things that should better stay unspoken.” But Daumier devoted his life in revealing those “unspoken things.” His lithography ink proved sharper than most writers’ pens. He vented his rage and stigmatised others’ infamy in his satirical and, oftentimes, side-splitting cartoons. The tone was relentlessly acerbic but only because Daumier was exposing truths that, in the time…

Review: Gaslight (1944)

Despite its varied forms or narratives, all Gothic fictions revolve on a fundamental contrast: that between the tenuous comfort of an isolated self and the dangerous fascination of an intrusive otherness. The Victorian is an age characterised by its obsession with the supernatural – poised on the verge of modernity, with scientific advancements like Charles Darwin’s Origin of Species inspired missions to unlock the myths of the natural world, people began to take notice of what lay outside their limited knowledge of things, of anything that is external to the closed domain of humanity. This curiosity for the unknown provoked an appraisal for the known – the immutable social system was revealed as hostile to the cultivation of individual minds, and time-honoured ethics such as that dictating a woman’s role in a traditional domesticity a menace to the preservation of personal integrity.
The negotiation between the old and the new, the internal and the external, is the dominant theme of V…

Review: Come Back, Little Sheba (1952)

Every adversity in life is a test of one's fortitude, the occasion of which, as proved invariably in the past, man is capable of defying destiny, of reversing the inexorable course to which life is doomed to tend. Too often we sympathise with the travails of the dogged, indefatigable fighter, whose hard-on victory we shed tears of relief and admiration, and whose stories and examples we evoke when in need of a boost of morale or motivation, that our notion of heroism has come to be hallowed with a glow of divinity peculiar to those who triumph in their fights. Those who fail – the martyrs who labour for nothing, who die without fulfilling what they die for – they are regarded with no less sympathy, but to recount their stories we averse, refusing to be reminded of what ultimately makes us humans – our inherent and infinite capacity to fail.
To face up to one’s failures, especially with the forlorn hope that such failures can ever be remedied, requires a special kind of courage. Wil…