The setting sun is a mashed persimmon

Metaphor is probably one of the greatest devices ever invented by human beings, which allows freedom of drawing a direct comparison between seemingly unrelated subjects, though it may sometimes occur to us far-fetched, absurd or even non-sensical due to a particular rhetorical and writing style of a user.

Ellen would sometimes chortle at my farcical use of metaphor. Quite unobjectionable as her comments are, it's arguable that it is the tension created by the dissimilarities or implausible associations between the two subjects which are under comparison that generate real pleasures beyond 'words'.

Here is an infamous example of my ludicrous metaphor:

People enjoy sunset at theTamshui River estuary flanked by Kuanyin Mountain in the south. I once agreed with them, but now ridicule them.

What can you do with a mashed persimmon crushed by a naughty boy with his catapult? A persimmon lacks the succulence you can find in a freshly ripened tomato which, after you take a good bite, exudes juices in a perfect mixture of sweetness and sourness. It is also flawed by the absence of the crispy mouthfeel you can expect in an apple.

What could you possibly do with this mashed persimmon in such an estuary where you have to shoulder your way through boisterous crowds and ubiquitous hawkers and stalls, against a deplorable, wet, piscine smell steaming up from the befouled coastal waters?

I would rather devour an intact persimmon in late autumn, when it's acceptably warm but not baking hot in Taipei Basin, with my fiancée fanning beside me.

People always peel off the skins before eating a persimmon; however, I prefer to have them with the pulp, for:

a) I can't be bothered to undergo such a ritual of scalping, as the persimmon is not an enemy.

b) I love such a contrast between the astringent feel in the mouth produced by the skins and the smooth, palate-pleasing firmness of the flesh.

While the former seems to show my natural sloth towards what I deem unnecessary, the latter actually reveals the inveterate pessimism in my personality.

I always remind myself of bitterness of life, particularly at those happiest moments, so much as the principal of a university talks about the approaching solitude, loneliness, desolation, frustration and suffocation during doctoral study in a welcome wine reception to those students, who are still basking in the great joy of being offered places on postgraduate study.

Helen of Troy is back

Helen of Troy was probably the most beatiful woman that had ever walked on earth, whose abduction by Paris brought about the Trojan War and fall of Troy.

According to Homer's Odyssey, she was exiled after the death of her husband Menelaus by his illegitimate son Megapenthes

In the Greek tragedian Euripides's play Orestes, she had long left the mortal world and been taken up to Olympus even before the war.

It doesn't matter which version is truthful to history, as I believe she is now around me.

(Image ©Howard David Johnson 2005)

Read what I have written for you Helena, mi mariposa en la noche.

Throughout countless sleepless nights flooded with torrential sweats, it is you, my sylph, the everlasting muse condensing into a dew drop before the dawn, the immortal goddess having sublimed into the zenith, who stroke every fissure of my hypothalamus with fingers full of charge and emboss my chest with reveries and incubi.

Lo, what I have to suffer in the days you remain incammunicado via the ethernet: without being nuzzled by your whispers through words blinking on the screen, a day is never complete, let alone the night.

Helena, for you Troy had fallen, but now another citadel is collapsing. Return to me, even though cyberspace is our humble cot, and even though I can barely feel you in real.

A bottle of Scotch from Port Customs Bar

Most of the time, if not always, I'm sort of the old school, conservative, reserved, almost taciturn. I prefer traditional British pubs to refurbished modern pubs or clubs which are always filled up with head-banging music.

In a traditional pub, people are more friendly, approachable and always more than happy to buy you a pint. Besides, barmen or barmaids always remember your name and favourite drink; sometimes before you actually order, a pint is ready for you.

In a traditional pub, you don't have to shout at each other against the ever bombarding loud music to make the conversation audible. Maybe some people just fancy something that would deafen them to visceral fears accumulated during working weekdays, but ear-splitting music is really not my cup of tea – I would rather eavesdrop on whatever chinwags going on at the next table or roars over a losing football match on flat-screen TV.

A traditional pub is also a classless institution, a cross between social club and a citizen's advice bureau, where all sorts of social distinctions or class gap never exist. You don't have to worry about if you attire is up to the dress code, which is nil in this venue, nor do you have to pay any attention to your accent and grammatical errors, as after having umpteen pints, no one would give proper language a damn.

However, the practice of drinking 'rounds' is probably a nightmare – you came in for a pint but end up drinking five, as well as coughing out more than a tenner. It is indeed more convenient to buy a round because only one has to leave the group to get some drinks instead of all queuing up and shoulder-rubbing in front of the bar, but if five chaps buy you drinks, you absolutely have to buy a round for all of them to successfully organise a piss-up.

This afternoon, I completed my weekend routine going to the Port Customs Bar. An old bloke named William promised me last week he could get me a bottle of Scotch for as less as ten quid. I kept my words and visited the bar; however, he said the bottle hasn't been delivered yet. 'Never mind', I replied. 'Until next time whenever you can manage it.'

Much to my amazement, while I was getting myself a pint, William went to Victoria Wine and bought me a bottle of Bell's. 'It's really not necessary', I shouted. 'I don't deserve it.'

His daughter Vicky came to me, coming out with 'Come on, if William fetches you one, then you deserve it.'

Established in 1825 by Arthur Bell. Bells Scotch Whisky is a finely balanced malty, fruity and rich whisky from Blair Atholl, Scotland. Famed for its distinctively mellow character and uniquely complex taste, it's claimed that Bell's Scotch Whisky has earned its reputation as one of lifes truest indulgences.

It's Scottish: do what you promised.

Tonight, while I was having a sip of the eight-year-old blend, I thought of those neighbourly chums, who always greet me with a warm handshake and a pint. They might be simply passersby in my life, but they give me warm hugs without any cunning plans.

Cheers, folks!

How do you find Chinese music?

What are the features of Chinese music? To Westerner ears in the early years, listening to Chinese music was probably one of the least pleasant things in their world. In reading historical literature on Western impression of Chinese music in the nineteenth century, I encountered some interesting comments.

Fred Gaisberg, a business representative of the Gramophone Company, who started his Asian tour in 1902, wrote in a field report that in Shanghai they had to stop the session after making ten records because the din had so paralysed his wits that he could not think.

Henry Ellis, the third commissioner of the Lord Amherst’s British diplomatic mission to China in 1816 to 1817, described the performance of Canton opera as annoyance of a sing-song and mass of suffering, and said he never wanted to endure the noise of actors and instruments which he would not even call musical.

William Tyrone Power, the commissary general-in-chief of the British army, commented that Chinese singers employed an unnatural falsetto key pitched as high as possible, and the vocal timbre was hideous and ludicrous which could be compared to a tom cat caterwauling on the pantiles.

While these comments draw on the viewpoints of a businessman, a diplomat and a general from the British Empire, what could a real musician say?

Hector Berlioz, a famous French composer of the romantic period, contended that to name what Chinese people produced by their vocal and instrumental noise music was a strange abuse of the term. He also criticised that nothing so strange had ever struck his ear as Chinaman’s voice. From his view, Chinese singing is as a series of nasal, guttural hideous tones, which can equate the sounds a dog makes when after a long sleep it stretches its limbs and yawns, and even less flattering, wildcat howls, death-rattles and turkey cluckings.

Although some earlier Western criticism is apparently culturally egocentic prejudice against the sound out of their classical traditions and practices, the derogatory comments are actually understandable.

First, these Westerners simply applied the musical knowledge they had learnt in their culture to what they heard in China: some of them could only equate Chinese music with noise based on their definition of ‘music’, whereas some, from their technical point of view, deemed Chinese music backward.

Moreover, as there was no need, and perhaps nowhere, to develop a musical capacity to appreciate Chinese singing or the acoustic effect of instrumental performances in their society at that time, a person like Gaisberg would certainly not be ‘musical’ enough to tell the difference between ‘din’ and Chinese music nor the variation among those pieces he recorded.

However, with the development of information technology and commodification of culture products, more and more ethnic or folk music from different corners of the globe are available in the music marketplace. It may help people to understand and appreciate musical sounds of the others.

How do you find Chinese music?

Thinking of Mum

Throughout all this life are two very cries I indulge in:
One at the birth of my life;
The other at the conclusion of your life.

The first, as I could never remember, was heard of from you;
The second, as you would never acknowledge, needn't be mentioned.

Nevertheless, ah, across these two crying sounds
Is boundless and everlasting laughter,
Over and over again
Having reverberated in the whole of thirty years,

You have acknowledged, so much as I remember.

~Yu Guangzhong

This is a peom composed by the famous Taiwanese poet Yu Guangzhong in moemory of his mother.

Encountering this poem on the Internet, I think of my mum, who had a stroke five years ago and then unfortunately was diagnosed as having cancer two years ago.

I always remember the story she would reiterate whenever I phone her. Having been in labour for umpteen hours, she gave birth in a storming morning, and thereafter quit teaching in a kindergarten to take good care of me. Indeed, she dedicated all her life to me and my sister, to this family.

This March, half a year since I saw her in summer 2005, I flew to New York to visit her. Hoary hairs, wrinkles, trembling hands, wobbling legs and, above all, the wishful longing in her face for my returning to her for good are the images etched in every inch of my flesh. She becomes older each time I see her, which I notice with a fear on mind wondering how many years I still have.

'A tree prefers to calm, but the wind does not subside; a son is able to serve, but the parents are no longer living ( Shu yu jing er feng bu zhi, zi yu yang er qin bu dai),' a Chinese saying goes. Filial piety is more than an obligation, but rather, it involves a wholehearted feeling of emotional indebtedness towards the parents.

May Mum live a long and healthy life; may I have enough time to serve her.

Kim Jong Il, the leader of North Korea

This is absolutely a stuning video clip praising Kim Jong Il, the leader (or actually the dictator) of North Korea, to the skies.

In a communist country like North Korea, nothing is impossible, as was in China before the bamboo curtain was raised and Chian opened up to the world. The state can simply launch the propaganda machine and convey whatever messages it desires. Even if the information delivered to the general public is truth, it always contain partisan bias and fail to present a complete and balanced consideration of the issue, let alone those exaggerated idle boasts.

Below are some other North Korean political propaganda video clips. I wonder what were on the minds of the artists who performed at the stage and the producer who edited the video clips when they were carrying out those 'missions' assigned by the state.

• Potato Pride
  
• Miso Soup Song
  
• Army Of Beauties
  
• High School Girls

We may consider the contents of these video clips laughable; however, the images presented here would be the pride and joy of the beguiled North Korean people.

The Broccoli Quadrilogy

Broccoli is a plant, a variety of the cabbage family, which bears large immature flowerheads composed of numerous small green flower buds. The fleshy flowerheads sprout from a chunky, edible stalk and form a mass resembling a tree crown.

Under the International Code of Nomenclature for Cultivated Plants (ICNPC), broccoli is classified as the Italica Cultivar Group of the species Brassica oleracea. The word 'broccoli' is from Italian; it's the plural form of broccolo, which means cabbage sprout, head. According to Oxford English Dictionary, the first use of this word in English may date back to 1699 in Evelyn's Acetaria, where 'The Broccoli from Naples' is mentioned.

Broccoli has a close relative: cauliflower. Everybody here in Scotland, in Britain, probably in Europe or in the entire Occident, knows that broccoli and cauliflower are indisputably two different words for two different veggies; however, in Taiwan these two edible plants are both called hua ye cai, or sometimes simply hua cai (literally 'floral vegetable'), and only when necessary would a colour adjective be added before it to indicate whether a green one (broccoli) or a white one (cauliflower) is being referred to.

My fiancée and I have a liking for broccoli because of the perfectly mixed physical sensation in the mouth produced by its crispy stalks and pulpy flowerheads. We just don't understand why some American children always show a groundless fear for this ambrosial veggie.

However, I never thought that broccoli would become part of endless nightmares. Though it's still one of my favourite vegetables, a hauntingly poetic relationship between me and broccoli has developed since I had my first broccoli dream in January 2005.

My fiancée came to visit me at Christmas in 2004 with her luggage full of presents for me, but, much to my surprise, what she asked for in return was a just tasty Scottish broccoli. Therefore we went to Marks & Spencer to get one.

'No way! A broccoli for a pound and fifty,' I shouted. 'What a rip-off!'
We turned to Iceland (another supermarket) to see if there would be any luck. 'Bloody hell! A broccoli for a pound and thirty,' I shrieked when blood was pumped from the left ventricle to my head at the speed of summer lightning. 'It's absolutely exploitation!'

As it started snowing heavily immediately after she made the request and we couldn't be bothered to walk all the way through the town centre to Tesco for a cheaper broccoli, we returned home with no broccoli.

It was a beautiful white Christmas eve, which was indeed unusual for it hadn't snow in Stirling at Christmas for a long while. However, my fiancée's wish didn't come true. Bing Crosby must have been turning in his grave had he heard of how I ruined this white Christmas.

She flew back to Taipei on Boxing Day.

A week later, I dreamt a dream, in which she took me to the court and appealed divorce, because I couldn't afford a broccoli. 'You pathetic bloke,' the judge roared, 'this woman has been waiting for you for ten years, and you wouldn't buy her a broccoli?' She won the case and divorced me.

What a nightmare. My 'wife', whom I've loved for ten years with every single inch of my heart, left me as a result of my failure of timely broccoli supply.

Another week later, I dreamt a sequel, in which I failed my PhD and moved to the Highlands to start my broccoli farm. I did so well and became the main broccoli provider in the British Isles.
It's still a nightmare, as I dreamt that I failed my doctoral study; nevertheless, there is a whiff of black comedy.

Still another week, I had the third broccoli dream so all of these became a trilogy. I was playing the piano in the broccoli field and making wholehearted wishes that my broccoli will grow well and sell at good price, just like those who play Mozart for milk cows in hopes of boosting milk productivity.

Though not as great as those Hollywood films, such as The Godfather or Star Wars, I always believe these broccoli visions have the potential to be adapted for TV drama.

Time flies; it's been more than one and a half years since the Broccoli Trilogy. This June, inspired by my friend Ellen and her seemingly unending low mood, I wrote a piece of music, 'Broccoli's Sorrow'. Despite the fact that this work was originally dedicated to Ellen and thus titled 'Ellen's Sorrow', dew to another broccoli hallucination, which I believe was caused by a fierce quarrel between me and my fiancée over the phone, I rename it Broccoli's Sorrow.

This time, I was running through my withered broccoli field to chase my fiancée on the horizon. Broccoli Trilogy has now become Broccoli Quadrilogy.

(Image ©Marcus Doyle 2002, courtesy of Vintage Works, Ltd)

Anyway, I will definitely marry her next year. No more waiting. But I am still assessing if she should carry a broccoli bouquet while walking through the aisle.

For those who are interested in May's interpretation of this work, visit this (in Chinese).

Flying Tigers and General Chennault

In December 1941, about the time of the Pearl Harbour Raid, a group of American fighter pilots, led by the controversial Maj Gen Claire Lee Chennault, organised the American Volunteer Group(AVG), widely known as the Flying Tigers, and flew for China to fight against the Japanese.

Following Chennault's tactics of 'defensive pursuit', the Flying Tigers flew Curtis P-40 Warhawks to guard the Burma Road, Rangoon, as well as some other strategic locations in Southeast Asia and West China.

A friend of mine, a fighter pilot and officer in the ROC Air Force who nicknames himself The Welkin (Tiankong ren, in Chinese), has a mania for these tigers. Unsatisfied with his ever-expanding collection of memorabilia, publications and replica or caricature models, he simply painted a portrait of Chennault, in the background with a Curtis P-40 Warhawk, himself in the pilot helmet, another anonymous pilot and a Blood Chit issued by the Chinese government.

Here is some background music for The Welkin as a salute to his work.

Though having exerting painstaking effort on this potentially historic masterpiece, The Welkin found that he still needed more so that his soul would rejoice in exultation. He decided to make this painting a true tribute by embedding the autographs of those heroes around the portrait and other figures on the canvas – genuine autographs, of course.

I don't really know every single detail of how he solicited for these signatures, but there is an episode which involves my mentor and lifelong friend May, over whose eyes I shall never pull the wool, as she reads me like a book.

Perhaps with imprinted on mind since her childhood the images of her father, now a retired navy commander of ROC Navy, and her late grandfather, a respectable general of ROC Army, she always feels affection for those bonnie lads in well pressed and creased uniforms. This may further explained why she married a police officer immediately after earning her master degree in mycology.

She was dispatched by The Welkin to crash down the Air Force General Headquarters in Taipei to request for one more autograph. As she would never miss any opportunity to glimpse gorgeous uniform chaps, this was definitely a pleasant errand – probably an unforgettable journey, just like the one we had had in the misty Jiufen in 1993 when I had a crush on her (well, since I am not a uniform man, it never worked out).

Unfortunately, quite the opposite to her wishes, she was dumped in a poorly designed, out-of-taste reception area, and had waited for at least one hour to retrieve the painting with one more scribble added.

Now that The Welkin has collected enough autographs, it's the time to add the last stroke, certainly not his own signature on the canvas, but a move to make this piece priceless – reproducing sixty copies of this work for whatever purpose in the future while keeping the original in a safe place.

I have no idea if he would commissioned a security company to instal infrared burglar alarms, automatic fire sprinklers and missile-proof walls, just like those equipped in Musée de Louvre, but may the spirit of the Flying Tigers be with all fighter pilot, as was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be.

Anyway, by writing this I would like to pay my tribute to Maj Gen Claire Lee Chennault and the Flying Tigers for their volunteering work in China during WWII, to give a salute to the fighter pilot The Welkin, and to mark the imperishable friendship between me and May.

The Scottich tune 'Auld Lang Syne'

It eventually turned out to be a pleasant Sunday afternoon although the day started with a damp morning. After service at church and my weekly shopping at Tesco, it broke through.

Invited by a Taiwanese PhD student Rebecca and another visiting PhD student, Noemí from Spain, I went for a cup of coffee in the newly opened Caffé Nero in the town centre of Stirling in the afternoon. Most of the time I would take espresso con pana; however, as it's not on their menu, I had no choice but asked for a double espresso macchiato. It's nae bad at all, although it's obviously not topped with a large dollop of light, fluffy, shaving cream-style foam, but with some funny frothed milk you usually have at the top of cappuccino.

Anyway, on this occasion, it is good company, rather than a good cup of coffee, that matters, and above all, the height of this afternoon was not the two hours' chat at the coffee shop but a jolly good walk in the Kings Park.

It is a very popular and easy walk from the town centre and usually takes no more than one hour to finish the whole route starting from the golf club. Along the path we saw the castle and the marvellous skyline against the Ochil Hills, as well as the village of Cambusbarron and Gillies Hill. Of course we also spotted the spectacular golf course, but fortunately we were not knocked by any mishit golf balls.

As the two ladies have just visited the famous Edinburgh Military Tattoo, their heads were full of the tune of Scotland The Brave. They just whistled out of tune all the way through.

Suddenly, Rebecca proposed that since I am a member of the choir of the Church of the Holy Rude, I should sing a song for us. In order to accommodate these two ladies' wish, I had to choose a song and sang aloud for them. What should we have? I supposed that a Scottish tune would be great.

On Hogmanay, or simply at the end of any Scottish event, people usually sing the world famous Auld Lang Syne to conclude the whole thing, and most of the time foreigners can only hum the melody without properly articulating every single word of the lyrics, so I gathered it might be a good idea to belt out this song for them.

Then I demonstrated to them the first verse of Auld Lang Syne. As far as I know, although there are actually five verses in this song, most people, even the Scottish themselves, only remember the first verse, just as most British people only learn by heart and sing the first verse of their national anthem God Save The Queen even though there are actually three. So next time, wherever they go, whatever occasion they attend, when others only hum the tune, they will be able to proudly sing aloud at least the first verse.

This song is probably one of the best known songs in the English-speaking countries. The lyrics are written by the Scottish poet Robert Burns based on earlier Scots ballads. The title Auld Lang Syne is actaully in the Scots language, which can best be translated as 'old long ago' or 'times long past.'

To memorise the good memory of this special Sunday afternoon, on which three non-Scottish international student sang the famous Scottish song Auld Lang Syne on the footpath around Stirling's Kings Park, as well as to the good company of Rebecca and Noemí, I shall post my own interpretation of this world-known tune on my blog. Of course, only the first verse.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min'
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o’ lang syne!
For auld lang syne, my dear
For auld lang syne,
We’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet
For auld lang syne!

If you have listened to the sound clip till the very end, you must have noticed the twist in the last phrase. As I was born and brought up in Taiwan, I think it might be funny to give a Scottish tune a Chinese mark.

Lenin on an advertising banner

When I was surfing the Internet last night, I came across an interesting advertising banner with this animated portrait of Lenin and some Russian words.

Lenin's icon does draw my attention; however, as nowadays it's not a tough task to manipulate the image of deceased political figures with the aid of software for image editing or graphic design, what piques my curiosity is the message in this banner.

Although I studied Russian long time ago at a very basic level, there are still a couple of words I can't read. Wondering what the hell Lenin is promoting, I found out my dog-eared Random House Webster's Pocket Russian Dictionary and started decoding the Russian message.

There we go! It's an ad for a telecommunication company, which uses VoIP (Voice over Internet Protocol) technology to provide service, and the flashing Russian words read:

COMRADE! DO NOT YAWN!
CONNECT RUSSIAN TELEPHONE NUMBER IN THE USA
AND SPEAK DIRECTLY

Rough transliteration:

Tavarishch! Nye zevay!
Rossiyskiy telofonnyi nomer vi Es Sha A podklyuchay
i gavari napryamuyu

The decoding process reminds me of how I started learning this Slavic language.

In Spring 1990 when I was in the third year of junior school, I told my father and uncles, 'I shall start learning Russian, because I can see the dissolution of the Soviet Union in the near future, so that one day when I visit Moscow Kremlin I can talk to Russian people in Russian.'

Although one of the world's two superpowers during the Cold War did collapse in December 1991, no one believe my prophecy, and people always dismissed me with a sneering remark, 'So you become a political analyst now.'

Anyway, despite those jeers, I managed to buy myself Russian In Three Months (Hugo's Language Course, 1988 edition) and began a self-taught programme.

In early 1991, several months before the Supreme Soviet, the highest governmental body of the Soviet Union, recognised the collapse of the Soviet Union and dissolved itself, I happened to hear a programme called Russkiy yizyk pa radio ('Russian Language On Radio') on my shortwave radio (Sony ICF-SW 22). Excited about this, I wrote a reception report to the then Radio Moscow (the predecessor of Voice of Russia) and requested for a copy of the textbook for 'Russian Language On Radio', if there was any. In fact, I didn't even know their address (I simply put 'Radio Moscow, USSR' on the envelope), nor was I sure if it would ever reach them.

Three months later, to my amazement, they eventually sent me a parcel containing three textbooks, some postcards and a pennant featuring the logo of the station. While the postcards and the pennant have long gone missing since time immemorial, those three textbooks, made of newsprint with poor print quality, which accompanied me for quite some time when I was away from my hometown Keelung studying in senior high school in Taichung, are still on my bookshelf in Taiwan.

Learning languages is just a matter of incessant practice. When I realised it was no easy task to find someone to practice with in early 1993, my self-taught programme was suspended and have remained in hibernation ever since. Nevertheless, I did have a good time struggling through those Cyrillic letters and tongue-twisting palatal sounds.

Never take from me your laughter

Pablo Neruda is one of my favourite poets, because of whom I started learning Spanish several years ago. As a beginner, I always remember that he always used simple words and simple sentence structures while depicting vivid scenes and profound passion and love. Here is the first verse of his Tu Risa, a poem included in his Los Versos Del Capitán:

Quítame el pan, si quieres,
quítame el aire, pero
no me quites tu risa.

The English translation is:

Take from me bread, if you want,
take away from me the air, but
do not take from me your laughter.

Three lines composed of a few words and an uncomplicated sentence, simple enough for a beginner to grasp the verbal meaning, deliver the very idea that without his lover's laughter, life does not go anywhere.

There are actually six verses in this poem. Although in comparison to the succinct opening verse and the middle four, the last is relatively long, the effect is the final release of the tension building up through the incessant pulsation of the rhythm of words packed in one sentence.

Ríete de la noche,
del día, de la luna,
ríete delas calles
torcidas de la isla,
ríete de este torpe
muchacho que te quiere,
pero cuando yo abro
los ojos y los cierro,
cuando mis pasos van,
cuando velven mis pasos,
niégame el pan, el aire,
la luz, la primavera,
pero tu risa nunca
porque me morriría.

The translation:

Laught at the night,
at the day, at the moon,
laught at the twisted
streets of the island,
laught at this clumsy
boy who loves you,
but when I open,
the eyes and close them,
when my steps go,
when my steps return,
deny me bread, air,
light, spring,
but never your laughter
for I will die.

Neruda emphasises again and again that how essential his lover's laughter is to his life; he would give away everything in return for the trace of happiness in her face.

My fiancée Fanne is always in an incurably optimistic mood, as opposed to my irremediable pessimistic personality, and laughs all the time. I may not be as lucky as Pablo Neruda who shared a mutual passion for love and lover's quarrels with his wife Matilde Urutia, for I had carried a torch for her for two years before I won her heart eleven years ago, but I do cherish the smile in her face which I suppose is always there even when a torrent of irate words spit out of her lips.

Although we quarrel with each other every so often over nonsensical trivia daily life, I do believe we live a happy life, just like how they had lived even when exiled to an Italian island of Capri in the Mediterranean, as shown in the film Il Positno.

Do you have Absolute Pitch?

Do you have any friends who, when hearing a tune, can repeat exactly the same immediately on an instrument, or who can name a note when the sound strikes them? If you do, you happen to have known someone who has absolute pitch.

Absolute pitch, sometimes also referred to as perfect pitch, is the ability to recognise a musical note by name, or to sing a note at the correct pitch without any other reference note. Those who have this sort of talent can usually:

• recognise and name individual pitches played on instruments
• recognise and name all the tones of a chord or a mass of tones
• name the key of a musical work (of course the music has to be tonal, but not contemporary atonal works)
• sing a pitch without any reference note
• name the pitches of ordinary sounds in everyday life – for example, a car honk or a clash of ceramic plates

Some people believe that this is an innate capacity which is the expression of certain genes, some argue that this can be acquired through early training during a critical period when children develop their musical ability, and yet others prove that the skill can be learned at a later stage of life.

Whatever the arguments are, I would say that absolute pitch may be useless if the one who possesses it cannot name a given pitch in agreement with the cultural context or musical practices of the society he or she stands in. A person with this talent or skill must be able to give the appropriate names, which is understandable and meaningful within a musical tradition.

For example, in Indian Classical music, an octave is not divided into 12 notes and its tuning system is very much different from the equal temperament system employed in the West. Therefore, an absolute-pitch, Western-classical-music person may not be able to name those pitches used in Indian classical music, even though he or she can recognise them or correctly reproduce them all the time by singing them.

Some scientific studies have shown that a person has to be exposed to early music training, normally by the time of six years of age, otherwise he or she will never develop absolute pitch, even if there is certain inborn predisposition for the ability to have absolute pitch. Hence, be it a natural aptitude or acquired skill, a person must learn the particular names of pitches used in a particular music tradition so that those given pitches can be name properly and the ability be exercised in musical activities such as composition and performance.

For those who would like to know more about scientific research on absolute pitch, here is an on-going interesting project to identify the genes that are involved in the development of absolute pitch, University of California Absolute Pitch Study, as well as some articles published in academic journals and the lay press.

For those who would like to see if they have absolute pitch to participate in the research, click here to start the test.

Spanish is for lovers

I once heard some interesting comments on several major European languages:

Italian is for singers;
Spanish is for lovers;
French is for diplomats;
German is for horses;
English is for geese.

While the first three are self-evident and need no further explanation, making sense of the last two is a bit challenging. I suppose it is the way "r" and "ch" are enunciated that makes people give this comment on the German language. However, though I've spent all my life learning English, I still don't have a clue about how Shakespeare and Milton's language is associated with those domestic fowls.

Anyway, I do find Spanish full of love and passion. Apart from the sound (by this I mean phonology), I'm really fond of some vivid analogies widely seen in works of Spanish literature and music. The quote below is from a Cuban song Silencio.

Silencio, que están durmiendo
los nardos y las azucenas
no quiero que sepan mis penas
porque si me ven llorando, morirán.

Although I know that lyrics or poems can only be best understood in the original language in which they are written, I've still tried my best to translate the quote in hopes of helping those who don't read Spanish to make sense of it.

Silence! Sleeping are
the spikenards and the lilies
whom I don't want to know my pains
because if they see me crying, they will die.

I have no idea if this is really a love song. Nevertheless, I know it may be useful when courting a girl. Take her to a garden and tell her how much torture you have gone through in your life. After she is moved by your story (of course, you have to tell the truth rather than making up a fictitious one), ask her to be quiet and not to wake up those sleeping flowers, so they won't wither as implied in the song.

Believe me, her heart will be melt by this.

There is a very good duet version of this song performed by two incredibly talented aging Cuban singers, Ibrahim Ferrer and Omara Portuondo, which is collected in the album Buena Vista Social Club Presents Ibrahim Ferrer.

A free-verse poem, Walking Through Seasons

In English poetry, metrical feet are determined by whether a syllables are stressed or unstressed, whereas in Latin and Greek (the classical languages) poetry, feet are based on the length of syllables, i.e. long or short syllables.

I like poetry, but I don't think my rusted Latin is still employable and hence I would use English. Nevertheless, as English is not my first language, I don't deal with feet and metres very well, and therefore would prefer composing free verse.

The work below was written in May 2005 for a lady in a distant land.

Walking Through Seasons

If only I were a butterfly,
I could drift in the wind across
the Albion Straits, the Steppes and the Gobi, and
reach you in the Far East to
bring you the whisper of spring concealed by heathers in the Highlands.

If only I were a dove,
I could float on air currents, and
carry to you the olive twig from the Mediterranean on a summer day,
as the one that brought the message to Noah, to
tell you I've found the land, and you are the land.

If only I were a maple leaf,
I could be blown away over
the Continent, the Gulf and the Silk Road, and
meet you in the island of Formosa to
pass on to you the stir of autumn spreading throughout the land of Unicorn.

If only I were a whale,
I could brave the immense ocean, and
sing for you the ode of struggling life in my sonorous voice on a winter night,
as those who have echoed my sentiment through generations in Andalusia, to
let you know I've seen my reflection in you.

Then through seasons and years,
I will prove to you that
imperishable affection is reserved exclusively for you, and thereafter
walk away quietly with
a deep sense of contentment and bliss.

A Chinese classical text

During the regime of Chairman Mao, there was once a proposal for a new set of Chinese writing: to get rid of those ideograms and to get on board the developed world by using Roman letters.

However, Chinese is a language with a high degree of homophony (each of two or more characters having the same pronunciation but different meanings), and the sound of every Chinese character carries a specific tone, or pitch movement, which is an integral part of a word and used to distinguish its lexical meaning.

As a result, it is impossible to abandom Chinese characters in favour of romanisation.

Have a look at the image below: a short paragraph containing 91 Chinese characters, excluding another five in the title, all with the eaxctly same sound shi in different ways of pitch movement.

If you transliterate the text into roman letters, there will be 91 shis. How can you make sense of them? If you are interested, read the translation in English and listen to the Chinese sounds of this text.

The Story of Mr Shi Eating Lions (shi shi shi shi shi)

In a stone den was a poet Mr Shi, who loved eating lions and determined to eat ten. He often went to the market to watch lions. One day at ten o'clock, ten lions just arrived at the market. At that time, Mr Shi just arrived at the market too. Seeing those ten lions, he killed them with arrows. He brought the corpses of the ten lions to the stone den. The stone den was damp. He had his servant wiping it. The stone den being wiped, only then did he try to eat those ten lions. While eating, he just realised that those ten lions were in fact ten stone-lion corpses. Try to explain this.

N.B. Thanks to Yung-Yao who proofread the Enlgish translation.

Maybe I should keep a weblog as well

I have been suffering from depression since late March and was finally put on medical treatment in May. Although I'm doing well and gradully regain my desire for food, my concentration just doesn't allow for long periods of sustained work.

However, it seems that it's easier to focus on something that has nothing to do with my doctoral thesis.

Some of my friends and colleagues have blogs and from time to time ask me why I don't have one. I always argue that it's impossible for a chap who is obsessed about keeping a handwritten diary all his life to manage a blog.

Nevertheless, I suppose, since I have made up my mind to set up a personal profile page on MySapce, it might be a good idea to scrawl a few words every several days, rather than to fool around all day checking emails every five minutes, going through every single article on The Times website, or chain-smoking and puffing it to those innocent birds in my back garden.

Though the garden is now blanketed in green with a wealth of bloom, smoking on the lawn does remind me of last bleak midwinter when I was struggling alone in Scotland.

Hence, why not give it a go?

I don't maintain a blog

How can someone who keeps a handwritten diary possibly maintain a weblog at the same time? I don't have enough energy and time to keep both, and therefore there is no blog in my space.