Man of No Letters

a place for no arguments nor approvals

Mirror Mirror in the Elevator

I know that Jorge Luis Borges had his own way of interpretation of mirror, and mine is just another that I just came up with in the elevator, as follows:

I hate mirror. Seeing all those guys who look like me doing the same things as I do just irks me, as if they are thinking what I’m thinking. And when I look down on the floor, they laugh and sneer ’cause that’s what all winners do. I walk out the door, feeling a bit dizzy and humiliated, and leave them all behind to keep talking about their victory.


Filed under: poetry, , , ,

When everything is so black and orange

When I suddenly woke up last night I saw from the open window a plain stretch of intensified blackness (thanks to the incessant rainfalls), which was like a print that forms an inner world that sounds are absolutely forbidden – except the 3 giant oil tanks far beyond that looked like they are roasting on fire. I knew I’m not having a nightmare and I could smell the slight odor of my pillow; then I went to sleep again, feeling all safe and peaceful.

Filed under: poetry, , , ,

Does It Matter?

Last night as I was editing a graphic work, my little sis came into my room just to chat a little – that’s her way, before going to bed, of getting connected with me, and I never ask her why but only making jest like “Do you miss me or what?” She always takes a fancy to cellphones, my PSP, computers, and even “created” a fake notebook with a broken, steel-made color pencil case so she can be “one of us.”

Standing next to me, all of a sudden  (that’s also one of her little ways) she started fiddling with the keyboards – she just couldn’t help herself – I jumped up and shouted “What are you doing?!”

She questioned me with “Does that matter?”

“OF COURSE it matters!!!”

No, family matters more.” – she replied with a naive and casual tone, then went downstairs, leaving me wondering “Well, ain’t that a kick in the head…”

What a kid, and she just turns 8.

Filed under: thoughts, , , , , , ,

Let It Be Read

Let it be read, be told, be sounded

Let the sound of your voice control my nerves and heartbeats

Let your face and lips absorb everything my eyes could see and follow

Let the story carry me to the land where I fear not to be jerked back to the life I have but own

Let there be darkness with a bit of shade of light  that you have become

Then the the selfish child in me — pardon me for the expression — should rest

In the vacancy that has been  cracked by the vibrating words of yours

Feeling the released gravity of my body, now you do cure

And falling into sleep that I can’t feel anymore


p.s. I needed to write this down immediately at the expense of a pause from The Book of Disquiet.

Filed under: poetry, , ,

Why writing?

I write because I don’t understand, things change, I’m always agitated and melancholy, and it seems the only option I’ve got to get a bit closer to all the classical writers who I can trust, rely on and whose friendship I can always feel secure with and proud of.

Filed under: thoughts, ,

Back again

This blog has long been neglected, on purpose, or just out of forgetfulness; but since the desire and habit of reading and keeping a journal (physical diary and pen) have been working together so harmoniously — maybe the thoughts that I’m on a different, imaginary phase of life plays a part in this as well — I think it would be a nice idea to keep this blog alive, at least for the present. The thought of no audience used to bothered me, but no more; I kind of realize that what’s even worse is that I am the one who rudely, pitilessly and harmfully ignore myself, and that could have been a sin, a guilt (I don’t really know the difference).

Yesterday when I was sitting and reading Fernando Pessoa in the local library, my absent-mindedness carried my sight to my left hand, to my surprise I don’t remember when is the last time I really take a good look at myself and that made my heart sink for a couple of seconds, and then it feels like I have suddenly become so small, unimportant yet my consciousness grew so rich and free — even just temporarily.

Pray, let the time keeps going slowly, silently, ’cause I’m going with it, as long as I’m breathing.


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Filed under: thoughts, , , ,

Verse: Is It Done and All?!

A short yet humorous piece.

‘How much is this worth?’
‘Is it done and all?’
‘Hard to say.’
‘What exactly is it for?’
‘You’re a wacko, you know.’
‘Well, you bet.’

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A Musical Instrument by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

A simple and sweet poem as this easily brings us right back to the very beginning of childhood, the time when we still are innocent and curious about our surroundings…

What was he doing, the great god Pan,
Down in the reeds by the river?
Spreading ruin and scattering ban,
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
And breaking the golden lilies afloat
With the dragon-fly on the river.

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,
From the deep cool bed of the river:
The limpid water turbidly ran,
And the broken lilies a-dying lay,
And the dragon-fly had fled away,
Ere he brought it out of the river.

High on the shore sat the great god Pan
While turbidly flowed the river;
And hacked and hewed as a great god can,
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,
Till there was not a sign of the leaf indeed
To prove it fresh from the river.

He cut it short, did the great god Pan,
(How tall it stood in the river!)
Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man,
Steadily from the outside ring,
And notched the poor dry empty thing
In holes, as he sat by the river.

‘This is the way,’ laughed the great god Pan
(Laughed while he sat by the river),
‘The only way, since gods began
To make sweet music, they could succeed.’
Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,
He blew in power by the river.

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan!
Piercing sweet by the river!
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!
The sun on the hill forgot to die,
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly
Came back to dream on the river.

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,
To laugh as he sits by the river,
Making a poet out of a man:
The true gods sigh for the cost and pain, —
For the reed which grows nevermore again
As a reed with the reeds in the river.

Filed under: poet, poetry, , , , , ,

Verse: come mock me

A couple of days ago when I was checking out my deviantART messages, I saw someone put me in their watchlist, which is kind of rare so I have to know a bit more about this stranger. After a few seconds’ trip, I came to realize it’s all just a fraud!

This young lady only has 2 deviations, one is a rather poor drawing, and another one, which is also her deviantART ID, is a very large pic of her, with a pair of rather big eyes, thin pink lips and long blond hairdo. She has been a member for about 10 months, but got more than 20,000 page views, and tons of tons of comments at the right column, each stating that how glad they are for being added in watchlist , but none of which has been answered. i blocked this one immediately, I had to ’cause nothing disgusts me more than pretension, lies and frauds. People like them do nothing but harms to a creative communities like this, and what’s worse is that they even flatter themselves for being so smart and highly admired and praised by their ill behavior. But thanks to her, I had a bit of pleasure of sharing this story with you and compose a short verse as well. (read more.. )

come mock me (I will)
mock me with your smile,
your eyes and fake generosity. (jealous?)

come tease me (I will)
tease me with your photo,
your hairdo and popularity. (I’m fabulous!)

people need people like you
to know the evils
and they also need you
to love themselves more and
shield themselves from your
smile, hairdo, (jealous?)
eyes, and photo. (I’m famous!)

Filed under: thoughts, verse, , , , , , , ,

詩: 五點十分

可惜連個入圍的機會也沒 很少寫中文作品 但這篇至少有我想傳達的意念
至於韻味呢 留給你品嘗

I spent some time finishing this bad poem for a contest, with “Ocean, MRT and Happiness” as themes. Of course I didn’t make it to the TOP, I guess it’s because I rarely write in Chinese, at least it carries the emotion and thought I try to express. As for doing an English version? No way I’m capable of doing that without losing the beauty of Chinese language.

五點零二分 我還在等待
五點零六分 我還走在
紅光 綠燈 街角 轉身
你已站在出口那 五點零九分
列車班班 又準又快
我的焦慮與不安 只愁耗在那人擠人的冷飲站
你問 現在幾點了
我答 五點又十分

Filed under: poetry, thoughts, verse, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,


A few words

There are nothing but plain words in this blog. I am less frantic at writing -- part of the reasons is that I'm not any good -- than at reading, a habit that has companied for a long time. I don't know what to expect from keeping this innocent impulse... this world is too crowded already, does it really need another sound from another visible corner on this planet? I will answer this question later on.


September 2018
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