The Beauty of the Flame

"A Lucky few still have a fireplace, and this is where I would like to begin. In the 1970s I bought a house in the country with a fine hearth. For my children, then between ten and twelve, the experience of fire, of burning logs, of flames, was something entirely new, and I realized when the fire was lit they lost all interest in television. The flame was more beautiful and varied than any television program - it told countless stories, it could flare up at any moment, it didn't follow the set patterns of the television show."

Umberto Eco, 'The Beauty of the Flame", in Inventing the Enemy

I remember, when Tim's parents' house where they lit the fire at their fireplace, staring at the log for a long, long time....

P.S. and Proust would have agreed.

Belief or Nonbelief

In Belief or Nonbelief, a conversation between Umberto Eco and Cardinal Martini (no this is not a cocktail), Eco posed the question of why the Church has always rejected women in priesthood, citing a huge amount scripture to prove that the Bible/Christ had always advocated equality in sexes. Eco also referred to Thomas Aquinas’ implicit skepticism on the issue though bound by his time he held the belief that men are superior to women. I thought the Cardinal would have given a more insightful answer than this: "A Church practice that is profoundly rooted in tradition, and that has not really been deviated from through two millennia of history, is linked not solely to abstract or a priori reasoning but to something that maintains its own mystery. The fact that many of the reasons gathered over the centuries justifying why the priesthood is accorded only to men have lost their validity today, while the practice itself endures forcefully, tells us that we are up against not merely human reason but the Church’s desire not to betray those redemptive events that gave rise to it and that derive not from human thought but from the very will of God.”

I can’t help but bursting into laughter. So what really is the point of any conversation with the religious people if in the event of not being able to give a reasonable or sensible answer they go back to the same loop of all’s God’s will and God is beyond human intelligence and if we don’t know why it’s because it’s God’s will that we don’t know why…

Means and Ends

So after all, one point I wanted to make is, apple products, i-products, technology...some people see these as ends, some people, means. And I know where I stand. And I know what is really precious.

Dose THE SKIN I LIVE IN Have a Soul?

Phillip Lopate (ex-director of the New York International Film Festival and writer of the book Totally, Tenderly, Tragically, one of my sources of inspiration) wrote about Fassbinder's Despair as follows:

"It was a European Art Film, slickly shot, polished, with high production values-but no soul."

"The secret of Fassbinder's dramatic power had always been the underground sympathy he showed for his otherwise messed-up characters: but this time there was no sympathy, only chilly mannerism."

Almodovar's The Skin I Live In disappointed me for exactly what was listed above, and also for the following (although I was captivated by the ending):

1) The very presence of Spain, and the Latino spirit, which always play an integral part in Almodovar's movies, and which is one of the charms of his movies, is no longer there. The story could have happen elsewhere

2) The story is too plot-driven than character-driven, and in an Almodovar movie, i.e. such melodrama, we always expect a lot more from the psychology of the characters!

3) And again, for such melodrama, the emotion doesn't come out until the very end

4) And speaking of such pervert relationship between the hunter and the hunted, this is not entirely unique. Tanizaki Junichiro (writer) and Yasuzo Masumura (director who had adopted numerous Tanizaki novels) had done very good jobs on similar subject matters.

write

I was talking to the editor of a local magazine based in Melbourne last night. I told him I am a film critic back in Hong Kong. He asked, "So, are you still writing?"

To which I replied, "I try to, when I have time."

He said, "ah, that sounds a bit sad."

me, "eh?"

Him, "I am a writer, I have to write everyday!"

His very determination and passion inspired me.

Lovely old man with a straw hat...

It's good when you talk to people who can remind you how life should be like.

How They Drink Coffee

After a great meal at Vapiano (my favourite lunch place - not that i can afford it every day though) mr italiano and I went back to office and amused ourselves by laughing at this man in the same elevator with us:

man: this morning I was so excited to try on the new coffee machine. But there is no milk in the fridge!

as soon as we walked out from the elevator, he asked me, "Did you hear what he said?"

And we both burst out at the same time, "why is that a problem!?"

"I am Immortality and also death"

This morning I decided to take a break from what I have been occupying myself with and to take the pleasure of immersing into a story by Borges.

It was the first story from The Aleph, namely "The Immortal" (which plays with Giambattista's argument that Homer is a symbolic character, and which goes on to suggest that Homer might be an immortal and thus might be any or every poet we ever know of). I had read Borges works (short stories, essays, parables) in a collection volume before and when I started reading "The Immortal", I remember very well how the princess receives the six volumes of Iliad from a mysterious book dealer. I was sure that I've read it before.

But the story intrigued me the same and I couldn't remember, even vaguely, what happens afterwards. I decided to read on. Soon I was no longer sure whether I really read it before. Some of the parts seem very familiar. Some of them don't ring a bell. I was totally confused. But the more I am confused, the more I am intrigued.

It was until I came across the following that I realized I have certainly read it before. I remember these quotations crystal clear:

"There is nothing very remarkable about being immortal; with the exception of mankind, all creatures are immortal, for they know nothing of death. What is divine, terrible, and incomprehensible is to know oneself immortal."

"In my view, the Wheel conceived by certain religions in Hindustan is much more plausible; on that Wheel, which has neither end nor beginning, each life is the effect of the previous life and engenderer of the next, yet not one life determines the whole... They knew that over an infinitely long span of time, all things happen to all men. As reward for his past and future virtues, every man merited every kindness - yet also every betrayal, as reward for his past and future iniquities. Much as the way in games of chance, heads and tails tend to even out, so cleverness and dullness cancel and correct each other." (such can also supplement my argument against the level of inspiration in The Tree of Life)

"Viewed in that way, all our acts are just, though also unimportant. There are no spiritual or intellectual merits. Homer composed the Odyssey; given infinite time, with infinite circumstances and changes, it is impossible that the Odyssey should not be composed at least once. No one is someone; a single immortal men is all men. Like Cornelius Agrippa, I am god, hero, philosopher, demon, and world - which is a long-winded way of saying that I am not."

But what do I know? Perhaps this is exactly a spell that Borges had cast so the reader believes he has read the story before. And perhaps he did, in his previous life, another life, from another writer, who might well be the same person. Or perhaps, he is one who had written it in the first place.

I do believe there is magic in Borges's works.

What is Time? - The Tree Of Life

While I was watching The Tree of Life I was deeply touched and in a few scenes I was even in tears - without quite knowing why. Something addresses to my deep feelings, and I am happy to conclude it as a response to the spell of the cosmic visuals and the lyrical “stream of consciousness” style together with the exceptional use of (classical) music. I also enjoy very much the "reaching up" motif (lots of stairs, shot in low angle; Brad Pitt is always climbing up or looking up) which resonates to a religious sensibility that is very common in medieval art.

I very much appreciate how Malick managed to extract the extraordinary out of the ordinary (much as in The Thin Red Line). He placed the history of this ordinary family in a context that is much larger than the time and place it belongs too; that is, in the context of the history of mankind (or some may like to call it "evolution"); of the very existence of not just men but essentially, "beings". Which leads to the realization of how ignorant men are about the meaning of their (our) own existence. I am also moved by the father-son relationship which can probably also be read as a metaphor of god-men relationship.

However, there is a part in my mind that resists this film. For me, it works on an emotional level rather than an intellectual level. It doesn’t present the sharp observation and revelation, nor the complexity and density as in 2001: A Space Odyssey (that it is constantly compared to, if not related to), in which every single image carries a meaning and is inter-connected with one and other, and in which the juxtaposition of the images (i.e. the editing) is an important means of bringing about true PHILOSOPHICAL meditation and DISCUSSION on evolution. There is little doubt that the 3 parts of The Tree of Life (beginning of time-the family-end of time) are to convey a meditation of the history of time and of mankind, but there is no strong connection among them and the images (though grandeur and cosmic and absolutely captivating) seem arbitrary. I was about to compare them to imageries in a poem - sometimes we do not ask for rationality and logic in a poem. But then, great poems do carry rich meanings through imageries and the CONNECTION of them. The fact that The Tree of Life is structured like a poem does not necessarily mean that it is sublime.

Exactly what Sean Penn is troubled by - father and son relationship suggested in the flashbacks, or the coldness in modernity suggested in contemporary setting, or both? One can easily say both, as it is quite obvious. We can certainly FEEL it but I do not see we are allowed room to THINK ABOUT IT. The transition to the last part - the end of time (is there really an end - and beginning - of time, if time is but an illusion?) or the Apocalypse or whatever you wish to call it, is quite awkward, and for me, the vision is too simple and predictable, if not harmonious, that looks more like a wishful "ending" than a conclusion after deep thought. (And come to think of it, where are Brad Pitt's Mom and Dad, and their Mom and Dad, and their Mom and Dad, and where are Sean Penn’ s kids, and their kids, and their kids…? Note I am already very lenient, I am not even asking why their images are fixed at different ages. What's the logic? OK, it is either just arbitrary or their images are fixed at their most troubled moment, or even at how they remained in say Sean Penn's mind - but sorry, do all these really make sense? Don't get me wrong, I would not ask such a question if the last part was portrayed as a sort of "internal reality"; which it wasn't.)

Perhaps my ultimate problem with The Tree of Life is that I DO NOT believe there is a beginning and an end of TIME (if not that I am not a religious person). TIME remains a concept that is elusive and enigmatic and unapproachable, if not illusionary as suggested by Borges. To contain TIME and to think that it is containable is a denial of the complexity and mystery of existence. What's great about 2001 is that it doesn't even attempt to suggest a beginning of time - it only depicts the dawn of men; and there is absolutely no end (and no ending).

Having said all that, I am still keen to watch the film again and re-think about it-if I could.

The Lodger's Femininity

If I ever imagine how Proust (or, Baudelaire) is like - of course we have seen many of his photos, but they are 2-dimensional -, he must have been like Ivor Novello as the lodger in Hitckcock's The Lodger. Oh, beautiful Ivor Novello, walking into that old lodging house so elegantly, living his days - and if also surviving his nerosis, in his own rhythm. His pale face and slender figure embody such sorrow. With him, time is slowing down and becoming eternalised, all that matters is beauty. He is sensitive, melancholic, and above all, feminine (the film goes so bold as using the word "queer" to describe him). I couldn't take my eyes off him for one second. (Who can?)

For me The Lodger is clearly the negotiation between masculinity and femininity. The masculinity as embodied by Joe, a detective who handcuffs his girlfriend for fun, needs no further explanation. In a sense, neither does Ivor's femininity which is so explicit. But if we look at the lodger (and The Lodger) in a symbolic way, we can certainly discover something yet more interesting. The lodger's locking up his gun is symbolically a resistance to his masculinity which is presumed (or required) in a male in the/our patriarchal society. Such is exactly opposite to Joe's behaviour of frequent playing with the handcuffs. (And how much we love the lodger and loathe the vulgar Joe *blink*)

What's more interesting is the murdered sister, and in particular the lodger's mournful attitude. I tend to see it as a mournful attitude towards the repression of his femininity, or more extremely, homosexuality (which parallels femininity), again, as demanded by the patriarchal society. It is actually the lament of his lost self, his other half (this it is his sister, not his lover). For as suggested by Robin Wood quoting Freud, the human infant is already a sexual being whose sexuality is at that stage indeterminate, in other words has the potential of being heterosexual or homosexual, or both (and yet in other words, possess both masculinity and femininity). BUT Patriarchy cannot endure ambiguity and requires "real men" and "real women", and thus operates itself by rejecting homosexuality and femininity in men. (Here is a very brief summary, for more discussion on this read Wood, 'Murderous Gays: Hitchcock's Homophobia' in Hitchcock's Films Revisited. I agree with Matthew Cheng that Wood's essays on Hitchcock are most fascinating) ,

It is thus by no coincidence that Hitchcock casted Ivor Novello, a gay actor, as the lodger, which functions as the realization of femininity. We tend to identify more with the lodger (suggestively the villain, the marginalized one) than Joe the detective. (I do believe there are people who don't, but I couldn't care less about them) Why? Obviously not just because his such a charismatic human being, and definitely not because we believe he is innocent, for the film deliberately suggests that he is not, and we all know that in the original novel he IS the murderer; and Hitchcock's preferred ending which he recreated in the radio version in 1940 is a much more ambiguous one, in which the lodger disappears in the night and never returns. The film version ends with the lodger being innocent and the real murderer being arrested red-handed is none but a result of the studio's reluctance of having Ivor portrayed as a villain. It wouldn't be too far to say that Hitchcock does believe the lodger is the murderer.

So what is it that we love in the lodger? Of course, his femininity, which is in every of us.

Come to think of it, if we ignore the fact that the murderer is arrested red-handed (which, trickyly, is only conveyed in an inter-title - a subtle resistance against the studio's influence, I'd say, and also a subtle suggestion of the unreliability of such news), everything seems to suggest that the lodger IS the murderer. The only question is probably why he can cease killing. One can easily say it is because he has fallen in love, which is true, but not true enough as it hasn't reached the core of the matter. Let's go back to the theme of repressed femininity. If the murder of the girls is a physicalization of the neurotic impulse of repression (interestingly, the sister is murdered in her "coming-out ball"), he surely has all the reason to stop the act as soon as he falls in love with a woman: either the repression has "successfully" completed that no further killing is required to counter the impulse, or the contrary - that he has come to terms with his femininity by not regarding it as something inferior and "unmanly" (as reinforced by the Patriarchy), and certainly NOT something he has to repress/destroy . Clearly it is the latter.

"Only a man who freely accepts and expressed his own femininity can truly love a women: otherwise, "love" becomes perverted into the drive to dominate, possess, and if necessary destroy." - Wood

This discussion owes a lot to Robin Wood's book.

What Italians Like About Monica Vitti

I was having a chat with my colleague who is from Bologna - a place in Italy I'd love to visit very much, apart from Pompeii - (and who reads Umberto Eco and Borges like consuming desserts - damn he was telling me his mates used to go to Eco’s lectures every now and then!!!) regarding Monica Vitti.

How fascinating are these Europeans! I mean, he was telling me what he likes about her is her voice. Voice. His perspective is one that is non-visual; that is sensual. Only when you perceive a woman as a whole, in an organic way, will you be able to recognize the charm in that deep, unusual, sensual voice. He is one colleague that I enjoy having a chat with. (won't even bother to mention Monica Vitti to others)

Something I Miss Dearly

Of my life back in Hong Kong there are moments that I miss dearly, and moments such as the following comes to my mind quite often.

Those who are close to me know that I used to have emotional breakdowns every now and then, always due to the same reason. There was a night such breakdown attacked me that I was crying desperately in my office. I just couldn't stop.

So I made this call to A, who upon hearing that devastating, heart-wrenching, pathetic voice (and knowing all the background) couldn't refuse (some could) to come and meet me.

We decided to meet in a restaurant convenient to both of us. A Tai Pai Dong sort of place (the sort of restaurant I miss A LOT now). And when I arrived the place A told me that he also called B, whom he knew I'll be happy to see (and I was), whom knew all of my stories (well they are not "stories: although at one stage I was made to "confess" that I made them all up), and whom is arriving soon. Normally it was not easy to ask B, who is a hermit, out, especially not under spontaneous circumstances. But he was coming.

With beers and bad food (who cares?) we three chatted and laughed things out. And cursed whoever (that you-know-who) deserved being cursed. I couldn't remember one single thing we talked about that night. but I was back into one piece when we said goodbye to each other.

I never told them how grateful I was but indeed I am most grateful for them and the idea that they are always there for me was one that gave me the strength to go on until that "&^%*@#&^" sort of came to an end. Especially now that, though I no longer have such breakdowns - and I have Tim, I don't have such friends here.

Some Updates on Films, Books...

Over the last 2 months I had been very busy with my job at the Brisbane International Film Festival. The new life here sort of changes my writing habit, or in fact all of my habits. I actually become very domestic, lazy and laid-back.

Some brief notes on the films I saw recently:

Somewhere. D: Sophia Coppola

I never liked her. Quite disgusted with Lost in Translation with her superficial and condescending attitude. I don't mind her as a filmmaker and indeed the films were well made, but isn't she a bit overrated?

To say that I did not enjoy Somewhere would be a lie. It is well made, a couple of nice moments even. Liked the zoom-out when father and daughter were lying together at the poolside - she is good at such kind of shots that depicts a decadent emptiness, another one I remember very well is the sunrise shot in Marie Antoinette. But isn't sophia's vision a bit too narrow? I wonder if she is able to look at human condition in a perspective that is beyond her bourgeois/materialistic mentality. Again I don't mind it as a film, but Golden Lion, are you kidding me? A famous actor's empty life, oh well, when we have, say, La Dolce Vita, do we need Somewhere?

Certified Copy. D: Abbas Kiarostami

Speaking of need. Here's a film we need.

Starts with a discussion on replicas (and authenticity, and originality, and creativity) and the man being cynical about the idea ends up replicating somebody's else life, and that's when he start thinking about it all over again...A Kiatostami version In the Mood for Love?

There are films that challenge us, surprise us, entice us, but this is a film that we need. It unravels the soul, intoxicates it, and then consoles it, at last perplexes it. A very to-the-point - ok if also cliched discussion of male/female dialects/sensibility, and then, also a look into life's bitter-sweetness. Oh you laugh, and feel sorrowful deep down. So true to life. The intellectual conversations are also reminiscent of the good old days Eric Rohmer. I am most satisfied when I walked out from the cinema.

Enter the Void. D: Gaspar Noe

Came out from the cinema feeling totally fucked up and depressed. But there certainly is a cathartic (and I daresay, calming) effect. You so have to watch it in a cinema, and to sink into it. A very good cinematic experience.

Welcome to the Rileys. D: Jake Scott

I am not ashamed to admit that I watched it for Kristen Stewart's sake. But also for Tony Soprano. I know it's cliche, but those who follow this blog would know this is the kind of film I will go to. James Gandolfini cute and sexy, KStewart laid-back as usual, funny combination.

- - -

Apart from the movies, I am reading Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar. This all started with the conversation between me and Tim's friend who is a charming lecturer teaching Shakespeare and Creative Writing. At one point he was quoting an imagery Sylvia used in the book and I went to get it right away. Sylvia wrote this only novel a couple of months before she committed suicide in 1963. The novel, however, is a good laugh with a dark and odd sense of humour. Poor and lovely Sylvia.

Arabic Perfume

My new favourite: Arabic Perfume.

I had seen an empty bottle in Tim's best friend's place before and the scent was extremely special. I told her I love that scent in time - right before she set off to Palestine 3 weeks ago. And when she came back and she had a bottle for me! Made in Bahrain. Truly authentic. Please envy.



And oddly enough, this afternoon I found 上海蜂花香皂 for sale in China Town. AUD1.6 only...

The French Lieutenant's Woman and the Aussie's Pussy Cat

"It was certainly not a beautiful face, by any period's standard or taste. But it was an unforgettable face, and a tragic face. Its sorrow welled out of it as purely, naturally and unstoppably as water out of a woodland spring. There was no artifice here, no hypocrisy, no hysteria, no mask; and above all, no sign of madness. The madness was in the empty sea, the empty horizon, the lack of reason for such sorrow; as if the spring was natural in itself, but unnatural in welling from a desert."

This is when the French Lieutenant's Woman, aka Tragedy, being described for the first time. Thanks to Tim who has to study this book in his research but for some reason has to put it aside for a while, that I can steal it and start reading, amid the time when I should be working on something more important...It was so captivating I think I can't stop reading, at least for today...

And the pussy cat reads with me.

In an Artist's Studio

One face looks out from all his canvases,
One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans:
We found her hidden just behind those screens,
That mirror gave back all her loveliness.
A queen in opal or in ruby dress,
A nameless girl in freshest summer-greens,
A saint, an angel - every canvas means
The same one meaning, neither more nor less.
He feeds upon her face by day and night,
And she with true kind eyes looks back on him,
Fair as the moon and joyful as the light:
Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim;
Not as she is, but was when hope shone bright;
Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.

- Christina Georgina Rossetti

Tasmania a Wild Peace-land

一到埗，便愛上 Tasmania 。

Tasmania 是澳洲南部的一個島，自成一角，並不是熱門的旅遊地區，我稱之為未被旅遊業污染的世外，保留著它獨有的質樸和粗野，我希望它一直如此，因為它將會是我們日後常到的地方。

I fall in love with Tasmania immediately.

Tasmania is a lovely island in the South of Australia, staying in is splendid isolation from the overwhelming influence of tourism because it is not among the most popular tourist spots. Not just some countryside but a wild land that retains its rusticity and naturalness. I wish it would always retain such beauty because it will be the place we are going to visit from time to time.

有點像電影裡看過的美國西部，天與地連成一綫，一丁點城市氣息都沒有（除了一兩個港口附近比較大規模的市鎮），只有烈日當空、大片的平原、罌粟田、稻麥田、不修邊幅的車道—— Tim 的父親 Moss 特意不走高速公路，好讓我多看自然風景——、路上常會見到被撞斃或野獸噬咬過的動物屍骸，他們稱之為 Road Kills 。 Tim 的父母05年初次來渡假，一見傾心，當即買下一塊地，連同一大片樹林， Moss 親自建了一座小屋（！），每年到那裡小住三兩月。小屋位處山上，面向廣闊的草原和農地，寧靜的 Mountain Roland 座落遠方，守護著這一片風景。屋外鳥聲蟲鳴不絕，晚上還會有野兔、刺蝟、負鼠、沙袋鼠和貓頭鷹四出活動；晚飯後把骨頭丟到屋外，第二天起來已不知所蹤。

Just like the landscapes I saw in some Western movies, there is no trace of city/urban life at all (except perhaps one or two major towns). All that we have are enormous plains, opium fields, wheat fields right below the high noon, alongside the rough and sometimes twisty roads – Tim’s father Moss stayed away from the highways on purpose so that I can enjoy more views - , and road kills are but a casual view you catch every day. Tim’s parents went to Tasmania for the first time in 2005 and fell in love with the place immediately that they bought a piece of land on a hill with a handsome little forest. Moss built a house with his own effort (!) and they travelled down to Tassie for vacations every year. Every morning I woke up to be greeted by a beautiful view of plains, lawns, trees and farmlands with the tranquil Mountain Roland standing at the far end, looking after this beautiful view. The birds’ chirping and the insects’ chanting composed an enjoyable piece of music all through the day and when night fell, little rabbits, echidnas, possums, wallabies and even owls would creep out to enjoy the millions of silver-white stars, if also the food and the bones we left in the bushes, with us.

屋外風景

傍晚（還是清早？），另一景像

屋外的樹林

屋外的樹林

初到埗的黃昏，我們坐在游廊上吃芝士，喝Tim 買的香檳，看日落，我想起普魯斯特在到到巴爾貝克（Balbec）的火車上看到的平靜鄉郊風景。普魯斯特常提到 veranda ，他看海濱少女，他的 Albertine 的地方，我一直當作是陽台，這次去 Tasmania 和 Brisbane ，看過他們的房子，終於知道 veranda ——通常是客廳外有蓋的游廊，在日本房子也常見。有些人家會在游廊封上玻璃窗，變得密不透風，明顯我們並不喜歡那樣做。怎麼捨得把空氣與樹木的氣味，午後的陽光排除在外？在最自然的地方寫作、看書、吃茶、看風景，是我們的 luxury。

We sat at the veranda on the first evening and watched the sunset while enjoying good cheese and Jacob’s Creek rose champagne (which becomes one of my favourite). The view reminds me of Proust’s account of the country views he saw on the train to Balbec. Veranda, veranda is one of Proust’s favorite place in his beloved Balbec where he often settles to look at the shadow of young girls in flower, his Albertine…. Due to my limited experience and exposure I used to imagine a veranda to be something sort of a balcony, only to learn what it is after this trip to Tasmania and Brisbane. Some people like to cover up the veranda with glass windows but Moss and Elsie’s houses all have “open” verandas which are exactly the way Tim and I enjoy. The smell of the air and the bushes and the natural sunlight make it an ideal place for tea, reading, writing or simply being idle.

Tasmania 的氣候變幻莫測，今天萬里無雲，碧日晴空，第二天早上起來卻可以變得濃霧氤氳。那兒的霧卻是清新的，一點不覺霧靄沉沉——或許因為我們身處的地勢高，有一種朦朧的仙氣，那霧濃得觸手可及，四野淡白，美得令人出神。

Weather in Tasmania is capricious, ranging from a chilly cold like the day we arrived to a sweating heat in the day that follows, and one morning after a fine bright day we woke up to find ourselves in the midst of a thick fog gently pervading from the veranda and balcony. Unlike that in London (or in Hong Kong recently) which often conjures up melancholy, the fog - perhaps due to our location in a highland- was light and poetic, and it evokes a celestial lightheartedness.

我們在 Tasmania 住了八天。 Moss 每天駕著一輛七十年代的 Kingswood 汽車，帶我們穿越 Tassie 北部近十個小鎮。 Kingswood 令我興奮的是前座可坐三人，Moss 讓我坐在中間，兩個可愛的男人—— Tim and Moss 在我兩旁， Elsie 則在後排。每個小鎮都有它的特色，規模都很小，只有基本的士多、雜貨店、餐聽，賣日常食品用品，絕對絕對沒有 luxuries 。當然也有一些賣紀念品的店鋪，也有各種古董店，玻璃彩繪店，而且貨品價值不菲，不過你不會見到旅遊城市排山倒海的商業味。

During our 8 days of stay, Moss drove an old Kingswood (which captured me at first sight) to drive us across more than 10 towns in Northern Tasmania. As if in a movies in the 60’s or the 70’s, I was so spoilt they let me sit at the front with two lovely men at both sides, whereas Elsie reigned the back and impressed us all the time with her wits. Moss was a sweet husband he always asked if Elsie is doing fine at the back. Shops are minimal in towns, selling mostly daily necessities and luxuries have absolutely no place here (YEAH). Of course, there are shops selling souvenirs and Moss and Elsie had brought us to some really fascinating novelty shops, murano shops and antique shops where the prices are HIGH, but like I said, there is hardly any disturbing harassment of commercialization and consumerism.

兩老本來有意思把小屋賣掉，已經跟地產商接洽，不過見我玩得這樣興奮，他們說，現在不賣了！

And the most exciting news being, Moss and Elsie has given up their idea of selling this lovely lovely house!

接下來再按圖寫一點點。待續。
To be continued with more stories with pictures.

My Recent Addictions: Incense and Timber

I am a fan of the Kyoto incense store Shoyeido (松榮堂), but am recently addicted to this set of "four season" incense from Tim:

(The Haru one is in my office)

Particularly because the aroma resembles so much those he brought to Brunswick Heads Brunswick heads - yea they are actually produced from the same workshop in Japan.

Not the sort of pure incense like aquilaria agallocha or sandal wood I used to have, they are incenses blended with different sorts of pure essential oils, and the effect is rustic and bohemian. All these formulars are designed by Tim's best friend Sal the Sicilian who runs Perfect Potion.

Haru: This handmade traditional incense blended with pure essential oils of geranium, grapefruit, petitgrain and rosemary captures the spirit of Spring.

Natsu: This handmade traditional incense blended with pure essential oils of aniseed, benzoin, lemon myrtle, rose absolute, palmarosa and ylang ylang captures the spirit of Summer.

Aki: This handmade traditional incense blended with pure essential oils of atlas cedarwood, nutmeg, black pepper, hyssop, coriander, frankincense, fir and lime captures the spirit of Sutumn.

Fuyu: This handmade traditional incense blended with pure essential oils of lavender, juniper berry, sweet marjoram, clary sage, orange, bergamot and sandalwood captures the spirit of Winter.

* * *

And here comes another addiction of Mine: Timber



This little refined timber box was hand crafted by Tim's Dad Moss. I didn't have a chance to ask him the material of it because I picked it up from his workshop in Brisbane after we left Tassie, but I do believe it is blackwood. He is such a timber lover and he has a genuine respect for the craft he would polish all the works to the very extreme.

I have bought a piece of raw Leatherwood in Tassie and when I go back next time, Moss is gonna teach me how to turn it into a bowl or something.

Among all the timber that I know I think I like the scent of Cypress Pine most, but there is so much to learn from Moss in the days to come.

And the little cutting board underneath was made of different Tasmanian timbers.

I am pleased to announce that I am now officially a timber lover.

In Memory of Rohmer@Brunswick Heads

就如同《沙灘上的寶蓮》的開端，我下車打開大閘，我們駛進 Brunswick Heads 的小屋。白色欄栅外便是湖，到埗後的黃昏，我們在湖邊一躺不知多久，看鵜鶘海鷗飛翔、捕食，直到天色漸變猩紅，又轉灰藍，悄悄入黑。湖上有座小橋，過了橋便是海灘，只數步之遙，每天早上換了泳衣跑出去，游泳後赤腳回家，在庭園沐浴，也享受日光的洗禮。晚上到海灘散步，只有我們兩人，靜極了，然海浪聲如嚎；天空清朗，舉頭滿目是星，更可以看到銀河的軌跡，似灑了一層銀白的光，遠處有 Baron Bay 燈塔的點點閃光。他說，第二天一早再來看日出，不料我如常一睡睡到日上三竿——其實日出時有醒來過的，但見他熟睡，不想吵醒他，便又倒頭睡去。他卻說，他也醒來過，看見滿天是雲，不會看到甚麼，而我又睡得呼呼，便沒有喚我。

Just as the opening of Pauline on the Beach, I got out from the car, opened the gate, and we drove in this lovely little house in Brunswick Heads, just a few steps from the lake, with the beach across it. We lay beside the lake in the evening; there, pelicans and seagulls were flying around, picking at their prey from time to time while night was slowly emerging. We walked out every morning in swim suits and came back bare feet after swimming, then enjoyed a shower under the sunlight on the lawn. In utter darkness we strolled to the beach again and lay down: the sky was so crystal clear that millions of stars were visible, even the silver white Milky May, along with the blinking light from the lighthouse in Byron Bay many miles away. We were the only two there, and it was so silent we could hear the waves dashing loudly, loudly. He said we would return in the next morning for sunrise. Turned out I slept in, as usual...I did wake up when the first ray of light was coming out, but seeing that he was deeply asleep, I went back to sleep right away. Yet he said, he got up around that time too, noting that it was so cloudy that we wouldn't see a thing, and that I was soundly asleep, he decided not to wake me.

au revoir - for the heart of paris never ceases to beat

My utmost thankfulness to the dear old man who, for me, is not just another master but one who had brought so much into my life. He who is never aged, he who is never dated. He whose youthfulness never burns out and whose creativity never goes down, he whose works are always full of surprises in the midst of simplicity. He who has much influence on me in my appreciation for people, for love and the love for love, for time and the past of time, for naturalness, for spontaneity, for longing, for flirtation (in its most elegant form) (and for beaches, for vacations), for a light-heartedness (which I sometimes fail to maintain) in writing, and in living. What a cheerful and fruitful life he has gone through and just as me and Mary had talked over, he wouldn't want us to feel mournful. I have but to feel deeply, deeply thankful.

"Voir un film d'Eric Rohmer, c'est aller contre cet emballement: c'est prendre le temps de ne pas savoir ce qu'on veut, puis de vouloir ce qu'on ne sait pas, bref c'est prendre le temps d'aimer."
—Laurent Roth

「看盧馬的電影，若飲醇醪，不覺自醉，那裡面有時間不留痕跡的芬芳。」
—黃愛玲


P.S. I intend to post my friend's email in response to my comments on Last Friends tonight, but it has to give way by all means.

Tears of Sublimation

I was soaked in tears when watching Ulysses' Gaze this afternoon, especially in scenes when A (Harvey Keitel) was travelling through present and past, memories and imaginations, bliss and bitterness, longings and regrets - just like in Eternity and A Day. But those were not tears of sadness, rather tears of sublimation. The music and the images summoned up some unspeakable sentiments deep in my soul.

If Visconti could best depict the aristocratic elegance and decadent obsession in Proust's In Search of Lost Time - a project he didn't manage to complete during his lifetime, Angelopoulos is undoubtedly the one and only one, if not the last one - for I can't see any potential ones coming, that can best transcend onto screen Proust's loneliness, nostalgia, complexes, unmendable scars, lost regrets and of course all those streams of consciousness...

「沒有任何其他藝術形式比電影更能補捉時間的流逝，而又更能保留時間，讓它一回又一回地重覆自己。」

「安哲羅普洛斯......說：『人的肉身永遠都在日常瑣事中糾纏不清，而沉默的心靈則無言地編織思緒，直到一天，機緣巧合，隱秘的圖像浮現出來，水到渠成地糅合到現實生活的千絲萬縷裡去。』學者們可以花上洋洋萬言，從希臘的歷史、政治、文化、神話......，去解讀安哲羅普洛斯的電影，卻始終不若他自己寥寥數語來得來得精確清晰。其電影的藝術魅力，正正來自那些沉著恬靜、神秘詩意的影象——」

—黃愛玲

"You come all this way looking for something that's believed to be lost..."

—S (Erland Josephson), in Ulysses' Gaze