lobster and Kongfu tea

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 lobster and Kongfu tea pot, which i used for everyday….

 

 

 

 

 

Two lobsters and Kongfu tea. I got the coffee cup from the flea market nearby in this weekend…

No.1 My dearest

 

I do hope receiving a letter from someone

Beginning with: My dearest

Even though after that is nothing

It still my dearest

Nothing

It was a long day

it was a long day for me for all those lessons in English. one ESL, then bible study and then another speaking lesson in the library nearby. It really very good to meet those people in the same class. people came from Japan, Korea, Turkey, France, Vietnam,Mecro and Morcco, etc. stayed together for talking about all the topics about the differences along our counties.

I tried to talk more and read more in English. just knew i got so many mistakes in my former studying. I started my English study from middle school. and it really took a long time for a bit little improvement. Mostly for all the test i needed to take. And it always hard to know why i should learn this language. My working or social network didn’t need it at all. only in recently years i began to read some more imformations from  aboard for my column.But it still had another problem. sometimes i couldn’t visit some websites from my country as they were controlled .

Wiki is the most useful website, just like google for me. i like Wiki in english for it has so many writers whom want to work for it. but Wiki in Chinese only have some writers who  come from areas but the Main Land. As some website created and written by people all over the world, even though its correction sometimes still be doubted. It shows some spirit of the mixture of independence and cooperation.Just like why we created Internet a bit more than20 years ago.

At the end of the day,  i am so lucky to avoid being in rain, just after i arrived home, it started to rain, a heavy one, Weather in Boston changed just like stepmother’s face, according to an old saying from China. ..:)

A Man Like Him

by Yiyun Li
May 12, 2008
 The girl, unlike most people photographed for fashion magazines, was not beautiful. Moreover, she had no desire to appear beautiful, as anyone looking at her could tell, and for that reason Teacher Fei stopped turning the pages and studied her. She had short, unruly hair and wide-set eyes that glared at the camera in a closeup shot. In another photo, she stood in front of a bedroom door, her back to the camera, her hand pushing the door ajar. A bed and its pink sheet were artfully blurred. Her black T-shirt, in sharp focus, displayed a line of white printed characters: “My father is less of a creature than a pig or a dog because he is an adulterer.”

The girl was nineteen, Teacher Fei learned from the article. Her parents had divorced three years earlier, and she suspected that another woman, a second cousin of her father’s, had seduced him. On her eighteenth birthday, the first day permitted by law, the daughter had filed a lawsuit against him. As she explained to the reporter, he was a member of the Communist Party, and he should be punished for abandoning his family, and for the immoral act of taking a mistress in the first place. When the effort to imprison her father failed, the girl started a blog and called it A Declaration of War on Unfaithful Husbands.

“What is it that this crazy girl wants?” Teacher Fei asked out loud before reaching the girl’s answer. She wanted her father to lose his job, she told the reporter, along with his social status, his freedom, if possible, and his mistress for sure; she wanted him to beg her and her mother to take him back. She would support him for the rest of his life as the most filial daughter, but he had to repent—and, before that, to suffer as much as she and her mother had.

What malice, Teacher Fei thought. He flung the magazine across the room, knocking a picture frame from the bookcase and surprising himself with this sudden burst of anger. At sixty-six, Teacher Fei had seen enough of the world to consider himself beyond the trap of pointless emotions. Was it the milkman, his mother asked from the living room. Milkmen had long ago ceased to exist in Beijing, milk being sold abundantly in stores now; still, approaching ninety, she was snatched from time to time by the old fear that a neighbor or a passerby would swipe their two rationed bottles. Remember how they had twice been fined for lost bottles, she asked as Teacher Fei entered the living room, where she sat in the old armchair that had been his father’s favorite spot in his last years. Teacher Fei hadn’t listened closely, but it was a question he knew by heart, and he said yes, he had remembered to pick up the bottles the moment they were delivered. Be sure to leave them in a basin of cold water so the milk does not turn sour, she urged. He stood before her and patted her hands, folded in her lap, and reassured her that there was no need for her to worry. She grabbed him then, curling her thin fingers around his. “I have nothing to say about this world,” she said slowly.
from the issuecartoon banke-mail this“I know,” Teacher Fei said. He bent down and placed her hands back in her lap. “Should I warm some milk?” he asked, though he could see that already she was slipping away into her usual reverie, one that would momentarily wash her mind clean. Sometimes he made an effort, coaxing her to walk with baby steps to exercise her shrinking muscles. A few years ago, the limit of her world had been the park two blocks down the street, and later the stone bench across the street from their apartment; now it was their fifth-floor balcony. Teacher Fei knew that in time he would let his mother die in peace in this apartment. She disliked strangers, and he couldn’t imagine her in a cold bed in a crowded hospital ward.

Teacher Fei withdrew to the study, which had been his father’s domain until his death. His mother had long ago stopped visiting this room, so Teacher Fei was the one who took care of the books on the shelves, airing the yellowing pages twice a year on the balcony, but inevitably some of the books had become too old to rescue, making way for the fashion magazines that Teacher Fei now purchased.

The black-clad girl taunted him from the magazine lying open on the floor. He picked her up and carefully set her on the desk, then fumbled in the drawer for an inkpot. Much of the ink in the bottle had evaporated from lack of use, and few of the brushes in the bamboo container were in good shape now. Still, with a fine brush pen and just enough ink on the tip, he was able to sketch a scorpion in the margin of the page, its pincers stabbing toward the girl’s eyes. It had been six years since he retired as an art teacher, nearly forty since he last painted out of free will. Teacher Fei looked at the drawing. His hand was far from a shaking old man’s. He could have made the scorpion an arthropod version of the girl, but such an act would have been beneath his standards. Teacher Fei had never cursed at a woman, either in words or in any other form of expression, and he certainly did not want to begin with a young girl.

Later, when Mrs. Luo, a neighbor in her late forties who had been laid off by the local electronics factory, came to sit with Teacher Fei’s mother, he went to a nearby Internet café. It was a little after two, a slow time for the business, and the manager was dozing off in the warm sunshine. A few middle-school students, not much older than twelve or thirteen, were gathered around a computer, talking in tones of hushed excitement, periodically breaking into giggles. Teacher Fei knew these types of kids. They pooled their pocket money in order to spend a few truant hours in a chat room, impersonating people much older than themselves and carrying on affairs with other human beings who could be equally fraudulent. In his school days, Teacher Fei had skipped his share of classes to frolic with friends in the spring meadow or to take long walks in the autumn woods, and he wondered if, in fifty years, the children around the computer would have to base their nostalgia on a fabricated world that existed only in a machine. But who could blame them for paying little attention to the beautiful April afternoon? Teacher Fei had originally hired Mrs. Luo for an hour a day so that he could take a walk; ever since he had discovered the Internet, Mrs. Luo’s hours had been increased. Most days now she spent three hours in the afternoon taking care of Teacher Fei’s mother and cooking a meal for both of them. The manager of the Internet café had once suggested that Teacher Fei purchase a computer of his own; the man had also volunteered to set it up, saying that he would be happy to see a good customer save money, even if it meant that he would lose some business. Teacher Fei had rejected the generous offer—despite his mother’s increasing loss of her grip on reality, he could not bring himself to perform any act of dishonesty in her presence.

From THE NEW YORKER

 

owlheaven..mother with 10 kids

 

http://owlhaven.wordpress.com/

I noticed that blog address from CNN oneday, the host said it belonged to a mother with 10 kids. i am so curious with how her life would be. for many food need to prepare and so much quesions need to answer..also so many demands need to response…i can’t imagine that, can she enough for her 24 hours a day? since my country obey by goverment as one-kids rule. we have no big family from 1978 or so in cities and towns.but my grandmother have 7 kids and my mom is just in the middle. Mom said her mother was just amazing to take care all the kids she had. In my momery, one of my classmate in my highschool who have 9 kids in her family. Her parents always wanted to have a son for a long time, but they always got daughters. and my classmate, that girl, was the 8th daugthers. Her parents finally exchange her 9th sister with another family. then her father and mother had a son. They treated him just like prince…

 

my first blog in English

seems good as a start. i’d like to write something in this language, not originally mine. a challage to me of course.