Lady on Heels

It’s 6 p.m. on Friday. Normally there shouldn’t be many people at the metro station, but today it’s an exception.

The train came. Doors opened. People stepped out and stepped in. While I was rushing to the staircase of the train, I accidentally kicked the shoe of a muslin girl. I was panicked. I was worried about quarrelling with her, and with another muslin girl on her side, who is evidently her bestie. But before anything happened, I had already reached the second floor. I felt sorry for not saying sorry, or pardon in French to her. Or do I really feel sorry, since it wasn’t even a kick, but more like a mild friction?

While I was immersed in my reflection, a tall white woman halted halfway on the staircase, turned around, took off her headphones, and said “Excuse me?” to a fat black woman on the ground floor. Unlike me, she wasn’t apologizing, but asking for an explanation. I could tell the tone wasn’t friendly, but I had no clue what had happened between them.

All of a sudden, the train moved. The tall white woman almost fell over. She was swift enough to hold the handrail on time and then soundly walked onto the second floor, even with heels on.

As the tall white woman went upstairs, I saw and heard many people downstairs laughing. The two muslin girls were the most noticeable. They laughed so hard that they headed against each other to keep their bodies straight and steady.

Then I saw the fat black woman constantly peering over her shoulders in my direction. I suppose she was hunting that tall white woman, who was typing on her phone with her headphones on. Then she turned around and laughed at a black man sitting on the staircase:


“Hahahaha, didn’t you hear what I said to her? Lady, you have bumped into me…”

“Hahahah that lady on heels, she almost fell over, didn’t you see that?”

“Oh la la, Lady on Heels, oh la la...”

“Hehehehehe…”

The fat black woman got off one stop before mine. Before leaving, she said briefly in my direction: “Goodbye, Lady on Heels“. I turned around and checked the tall white woman again — she was still busy with her phone, with headphones on. It was a really nice pair of headphones. Noise cancelling.

Doors closed.

The muslin girls were still laughing. I wasn’t sure if they had had any eye contact with the fat black woman before she got off.

记忠正 04/15

睡不着，浑身难受，不知怎么就想起了远方的一个朋友。

第一次认识他是在小学四年级。那会正好换了班级，新老师新同学，我也是费了些时间才慢慢了解到，班里有个朝鲜来的同学呢。

当时在我印象里，朝鲜就是个人人穿着类似和服一样的传统衣服，戴着高帽，平时经常吃人参喝鸡汤的国家呢。但后来看乒乓球赛，经常看中国队打朝鲜队，听老妈说：“朝鲜很穷呢，运动员们好几个人喝一瓶水”。我将信将疑。

他叫李忠正，比我们大两岁，个子也略高一些，长得浓眉大眼，总是很紧张地抿着嘴。他还有个妹妹，叫李智慧，俩人差了几岁，但是同一天出生的，不可思议。忠正后来给我传了她在朝鲜广场上的照片。

我们最初熟识是因为篮球吧。四年级全班男生都迷上打球，下课了经常一窝蜂地去操场上瞎投，他也来和我一起打。他运球极快，上篮迈起三步能把我们都过个干净，一旦玩起全场更是4个人都堵不住他。至于赛跑什么的更不用说了，全班都被吓到了，不一会又都转为喜：这下运动会肯定能拿第一了！！这是我们第一次体验开挂的感觉。

他中文说的好，让我很长一段时间内都没觉出来他是外国人，只是上语文课朗读能觉得他有点吃力，可我们谁都不在乎。

他画画得也好。语文老师当时布置过一个作业，让我们画心目中的红树林。第二天老师展示了他的画，远远看去非常写实，仔细一看，竟是用水笔勾勾点点画成的。我当时看着，用铅笔在本子上试了一下，觉得肯定能画的比他好，现在再想，当时真是自信的吓人啊。

音乐课，老师让唱歌，他不太会唱，问老师能不能唱韩语的。全班当然大喜过望，听他红着脸，张大嘴，一点头一点头地唱《小白船》。谁都听不懂，但都觉得唱的真好听。从此这首歌都成了班级文娱活动的保留节目，当然他每次都唱的极认真，群众反响也都很热烈。

就这么过了一年半，五年级了，突然得知：他要回国了，不能和我们一起上学了。大家都很难过，尤其是我们几个一起打球的，特别舍不得。临别的时候我们一群男生跑到他家楼下，合影，虽然难过得快掉眼泪，但总觉得以后还会再见的。他给我们每个人都留了个礼物，我的是一个本子，写的是：祝你天天快乐。

我们就这样慢慢接受了他转走的事实，很平淡。唯独在篮球联赛中爆冷输给一个很弱的班时才想到他。

就这么过了几年，上初中那会，某天，突然接到一个qq讯息，一看是忠正发来的。他说他要回来了，想和几个好朋友聚一聚。我很高兴他能找到我。然后在一个晚上，毫无征兆地，听见他和几个小学同学在楼下喊我。我冲下楼，几个人在地下停车场疯玩。

后来在校园突然看到他的身影。很吃惊，又很欢喜，以为我们又能做同学了。但最终他从初三开始上，和一群比我大很多的人一起玩，勾肩搭背，据说还经常去网吧。有时很想去找他一起出去玩，可每次都遇到他和那堆朋友，就躲开了。

过了一个学期吧，突然发觉好久没见到他了。去问和他很熟的一个小学同学，得知他又回朝鲜了。

高一，某天，突然又接到他的qq讯息，说他要回来了，上大学，在烟大。这么多年了突然接到他的消息，让我惊慌失措。我思考了好久才找到合适的词语，去问候，去寒暄，尽量显得自己热情。同时发送信息前还自己读一遍：写的应该挺通俗易懂吧？

那会学习也忙，自然也没什么机会和他聚，只是经常看他发空间动态，大多是抱怨考试，感谢同学之类的话。他也偶尔评论我的画，说：“你小子画的真是越来越好了啊，你给我的画我都留着呢”。 看到这，只是觉得说不出来的难过和感动。

十一的时候，我四处联络同学和老师，打算一起去公园聚聚。我们几个都到了，唯独忠正没来，让我们都担心他不认路了。我们正聚堆聊天呢，就听见一个熟悉的声音。是他！

三年没见，忠正留起了小发型，穿着衬衣西裤，戴着亮晃晃的手表，一表人才，十分精神。我们依旧像以前那样，大笑，回忆小时候的事，唯一的不同，就是我们都比他高了。

玩够了，我们一起找了个地方，铺上布，野餐。吃了一顿，烧烤都吃光了。我们俩就去买。走到烧烤摊，不等我开口，忠正就上前去问价，要数，还不忘喊一句：“给挑好点的”！声音沙哑，语调沉稳，能听出一些口音。啊，他是朝鲜人啊！

我俩拿着烧烤，往回走。我不记得和他聊了什么，只记得我努力地组织自己的语言，使其连贯通顺。那会金正日刚好去世，我还很想问问国内什么情况，想了想还是没问，就这么回去，把烧烤分给大家吃。

聚完，各自坐车回家。我们坐一辆车，我先下车后发现我们洗出来的合影全被我拿走了，于是赶紧qq告诉他以后找个机会给你，他说不急。

回去以后把拍的照片都整理好，传给老师同学。老师跟我说：这次聚会再看你们，有几个都不像学生样了，感觉有点陌生了呢，但实际上都是孩子啊。

之后一段时间看了个脱北者的纪录片，看的很郁闷，很压抑，原来朝鲜是这样的。

某晚，刚下了自习回家，很困，准备睡觉，突然接了个电话，是忠正。他说他要回国了，这次非常紧急，迫不得已，没有时间见面分别了 。我听了一时语塞，说了很多不舍的话，心里不是滋味。俩人回忆了很多小时候的片段，他语速非常快，说咱俩这关系，这种事肯定得通知你，我受宠若惊。临挂电话，忠正说了这么一句：“哎我很羡慕你们的学习环境，一定要好好学习啊。”

听完我就如同被雷击一般，以后说的什么都不记得了，只是最后挂了电话，盯着地板呆坐了半个点。

我知道，这估计就是最后一别了，以后没机会再见了。

以后看到很多朝鲜的新闻，总是会隐隐约约想起：啊，我有个老友在那呢。再联系他在中国的一切，都让人觉得很不真实。

忠正，只愿你过得好。

Nostalgia 03/01/2024

Before I sat on the long-distance bus to Riga, I had just finished my short trip to Helsinki and Tallinn. I was even accompanied by my friend, who was intrigued by my alluring descriptions of the Nordic and Baltic sceneries and folklore. We spent a good time together, drinking fantastic local beers and vodka, struggling to find our beds in a hostel. But then she had to fly back to Paris for work. I found myself travelling solo again, which is the mode I have been accustomed to.

So let it be! Travelling solo to Riga, Latvia! Before choosing Riga as the final destination of my short trip around the Baltic Sea, I did not expect much. I knew Latvia is one of the three Baltic Countries along with Estonia and Lithuania. Since I have visited Estonia, why not continue to try this Baltic combo?

I also knew in Latvia they produce nice vodka, which is acclaimed by my alcoholic friend, as the best in the world; Russian and Polish ones even need to step aside. I also knew two NBA players from Lativa: Dāvis Bertāns and Kristaps Porziņģis. Porziņģis is much more famous and skilful, but I prefer Bertāns, simply because he played for the San Antonio Spurs. Nevertheless, I have no interest in visiting their birth cities or any other places they have been to. They are just a connection I strenuously built with Latvia that will give me more reasons to travel. I hope.

When the bus was driving in the countryside in Estonia to Latvia, I didn’t pay too much attention to the view over the window. It was sunny that day. The sun's rays projected through the foliage of the forests, onto the green fields that stretched into the distance. It was beautiful, but having watched it for three hours, I inevitably got bored. I started to check my moving location on Google Maps, to see how far I was to the border of Latvia. When the bus was about to run across the border, I screen-captured my Google Maps. Here I am, Latvia.





The view of Latvia was no different from that of Estonia — as I was jumping to this easy conclusion, the weather turned grey. I supposed it was a huge cloud, but it turned out to be a weather front from which a small bus couldn’t escape. Everything became gloomy and murky since then, except for some small colourful houses across the woods. The depressing feeling got even stronger when the bus was approaching the outskirts of Riga. Many groups of shabby buildings in concrete loomed beneath the viaducts of the highway. They were evidently inherited from the Soviet Union, not from the modern architectural experiment of Le Corbusier. This building style is not strange to me, because I grew up in this type of building, yet in China.

In China, when these buildings get old and corrupted, they will be repainted into high-saturated colours such as orange and yellow. I used to think this way of rejuvenation was cheap and corny, but now I know at least they boost my morale. No building is more suffocating than a brutalism Khrushchevka in drab colours and being devastated by age.

Another evident architecture in the suburb was a rocket-like tower, the Riga Radio and TV Tower. I was surprised that it is the tallest tower in the European Union; what’s unsurprising, it was built in the Soviet Union period. It reminded me of the gigantic white tower in the anime “The Place Promised in Our Early Days” by Makoto Shinkai, even though at that time I hadn’t watched it but only knew its setting. I couldn’t help creating a lunatic story such as “aliens left their spaceship on the Earth which connects two worlds”. In the context of an apocalyptic wasteland, I found the existence of Khrushchevkas making more sense.



I got off the bus in front of a marketplace which resembled a warehouse. The rain became less heavy, so I didn’t take out my rainbow-coloured umbrella, which was given by my Dutch friend. I hesitated when receiving it, but she managed to persuade me that it was merely an umbrella. Functionality over symbolism. Nevertheless, I was a little worried about being mistaken as homosexual here, for I didn’t know how well the LGBT groups were received in Latvia.

My hostel was situated in the centre of Old Riga next to a rectangular square which, according to my poor knowledge, could only be found in low-land countries and Germany. I wasn’t totally wrong. I learned from Wikipedia that Latvia was under the influence of Prussia for ages before being ruled by Russia. So it was quite natural that the buildings here are German-like — I said so to save myself from the agony of being ignorant.

When I got into the hostel, I was received by an Asian-looking receptionist with a discernible Russian accent in her English. Her presence made me feel at home, given at that time, I hadn’t been able to go back to China for three years, due to the expensive flight ticket and the absurd confinement policy. According to this policy, upon my arrival in any of the three designated big cities, such as Beijing, I will be locked into a hotel room for two weeks. Two weeks later, if I return to my home city, I will be locked in another hotel room for another week. Only after this twenty-one-day detention can I move freely in my home country. Luckily, this policy was abolished when the invincible COVID-19 finally infected almost all the Chinese.

My bed was in a wooden container. Looking out of the window, it was still raining. I hesitated between two options: lying on the bed and watching some silly videos; or going outside without any plan. Since it was only one o’clock pm, I went to the square that could be seen from my room. It was not the biggest one amongst the others, but there was a cathedral on the far end and a solemn building around the corner whose front reminded me of a bank. I couldn’t be sure, because I couldn’t read Latvian! But the next minute, I was stopped by a stout man who kept his head low. He said something to me, which was intelligible, but not in English. It was in German: he asked if I could give him one euro.

So the first local I talked to (other than the receptionist), was a beggar. This situation had occurred to me once in Krakow, Poland; but that time the Polish beggar spent five minutes to make his petition clear. Of course in English. Upon hearing my rejection, he grumbled a lot before getting lost. But this time, I really wanted to give this Latvian man one euro, but I happened to have no coins with me. I replied with a simple“Nein”, whose tonality seemed too harsh as a refusal. As I struggled to formulate one more sentence in German to express my regret, he already walked away.

Then I went to see the most popular tourist attraction in Riga (according to Tripadvisor) — the city hall of Riga. Luckily it is near the river, so I still had other things to do after visiting it. To my surprise, the Daugava River reminded me of the Yalu River between China and North Korea. I thought of two characteristics they have in common. The first is that they both have a steel bridge across the broad river, which is also similar to those in Cologne and Düsseldorf; the second one is the deserted view of their opposite river banks, where factories are more discernible than other small buildings whose true functions remained unknown. But for the record, the view of North Korea across the Yalu River was definitely more sorrowful.



Having nothing to do in the downtown, I decided to have a lunch. Due to my tight budget and the unexpected inflation in Baltic Countries back then, I went to a buffet restaurant. I took something like fried chicken legs, grilled vegetables, and of course boiled potatoes. They were tasty, but I didn’t know if they were the food that local people would actually cook and eat. So in the evening, I went to a local restaurant that serves Latvian food. But what I saw on the menu didn’t differ from the German food, so I merely ordered a juicy pork steak. When the waitress took my order, I could feel her despise: That’s it? That’s all you have ordered? Later on, she threw the bread basket on my table— I mean, threw. But I didn’t say anything, because losing my temper would only make me a more pathetic loser. Fifteen minutes later, the food was eventually served. It wasn’t terrible, or impressive; it was just a meal. After having finished the last crumb of bread, I hailed the waitress to check, and it took her another ten minutes to arrive. When she ripped out the receipt from the POS machine, her poker face was even more deadpan.

It was around eight o’clock in the evening when I finished my dinner. The rain finally halted, but the sky remained grey. I went back to the square next to my hostel, having no further plans at all. When I arrived, only ten people were walking by. I shook my head and then opened my eyes again, but the view didn’t change a bit. I was for a minute engulfed by a sense of loneliness. I shouldn’t be feeling like this. I always felt at ease in such a silent surrounding. I decided to take another stroll in Old Riga. I did find something more. I found out with sheer joy that Belgian pubs were quite numerous. I suddenly knew what I should do that evening: have a nice beer. So I walked back to the square.

As I was about to turn onto the road to my hostel, a sound of a cello reached out to me from the distance. I stepped back to see where it came from — it was from the cathedral on the far end of the square, from a man, who put his bonnet on the ground while playing. I was drawn nearer and nearer to the cathedral as the solo playing became more lacrimoso. Or was the music itself really lacrimoso? I didn’t know much about cello works, so after having ruled out Bach and Elgar, I had no idea at all. I had music identification software on my phone, yet I hesitated to get closer to pick up the sound because I had no coins except a bank card. I started to look for ATM machines on Google Maps, but the closest one was four hundred meters away. Would the musician remain there on my way back? Was it appropriate to give him ten euros, which is the smallest bill from the ATM machine? My mind became more messy with the cello playing. Eventually, I stood still in the middle of the square, watching that musician with his back to me fifty metres away, playing cello. There was another audience, who was much closer to the musician. I saw him lowering his body to the bonnet. His action even made me more ashamed to step any further. Muxin once said that music is fragile in the wind (outside), but I opposed that the wind has definitely brought coldness and desperation to it. Having stood there for ten minutes, I found myself unable to hear it anymore. It was too sad. So I began to move my feet in the direction of my hostel, even though I found myself halted every five steps until the music became inaudible.

I walked into a pub next to my hostel and ordered two glasses of local black beer. They were so good. It was only after getting drunk in no time that I suddenly realized I hadn’t eaten too much that night, otherwise I would have stayed sober longer. It didn’t matter. I managed to go upstairs to my bed and lay down. I knew a deep and heavy sleep was waiting for me.


03/01/2024

Some thoughts on The Boy and the Heron

Prologue

It was easy to conclude in the first 15 minutes of this movie that our protagonist Mahito, has been in a state of trauma that amounts to her mother’s death in a conflagration. Another consequential trauma is the fact that his father married her aunt, who looks like his birth mother, yet isn’t. 

Now we have had everything needed to develop a typical storyline of how a boy deals with the trauma of losing her mother. Yet as the story unfolds, it doesn’t quite fit my first conjecture of the story. I find myself overflown with its intricacy and seemingly abrupt plot-twisting, which makes my final conclusion shaky and incoherent. Here I break down the story into four parts to discuss what the true theme that Miyazaki Hayao wants to express.

Failed masculinity

The story takes place in an old Maison that belongs to the family of Mahito’s mother, where the members of the household are female. They are old and morbid, apart from the young and beautiful hostess, aka Mahito’s stepmother, Natsuko. In the scene where the old female servants make their first appearance, they are depicted like night animals who scattered after seeing someone more powerful coming. This depiction is even more enhanced when they swarm to a suitcase full of canned food, meanwhile, in the background, an old man is left alone dying on the floor. His death is only witnessed by another old man, not by the old ladies who are more interested in fresh food. Doesn’t it remind you of the scene of vultures or mice favouring fresh food over a cadaver? 

In such a gloomy place, Natsukor’s robustness and braveness are dramatically highlighted when she saves Mahito from the hazardous lure of the heron by shooting an arrow. Yet, we find soon later, that this bow was hung behind a man’s suit when she is sick lying in her room after that clash with the heron. Her room is sumptuous yet murky, which hints at the true cause of her “illness” —pregnancy. 

Right after this visit, Mahito is inspired to make an arrow to cope with the heron, because the wooden sabre he used was useless. But the curious thing is, this sober was broken twice: once it was destroyed by the heron; the second time it collapsed into crumbs as Mahito tried to take it out of the closet. 

Given the sabre’s evident allusion to masculinity, can we take Mahito’s twice-shattered sabre as a total defeat of masculinity, albeit premature, in reality, and in his subconscious? Wait, there is even a third defeat when Mahito’s father brandishes his real sabre to ferocious parrots flying out of the gate of the Underworld. He doesn’t manage to hurt any of them, for the parrots become benign in the real world. The masculinity failed again. It is evident throughout the story that masculinity is not the key to dealing with the main problem of this story, then what is it? The arrow? What does the arrow present?

The Heron

In the beginning, the heron is portrayed as a haunting and creepy animal who speaks with a human-like mouth that intermittently sticks out of his beak. His tentative has been to lead Mahito to a mysterious tower. Despite the mistrust and hostility towards the Heron, Mahito is guided to the tower but fails to enter because of the blocked entrance. Why does he fail? Let’s compare it with the second time when he succeeded. The only difference is that this time, Mahito was not only led by the heron, but also by Natsuko who disappears in the woods. He follows up and finds the entrance to the tower.  It is the desire to get his stepmother back that enables him to enter the tower. 

In the tower, Mahito manages to shoot down the heron with his handmade bow and arrow that is fletched with the heron’s feather. Thereafter the heron shows his human body under the feather skin — an ugly man with a gigantic nose. Why the real body of the heron is revealed in the tower? The first possibility is that the tower is another world, so the revelation of the heron emphasises the essence of the tower: an entrance to the Underworld. The second possibility is simply that it happened to be in this place where Mahito has the chance to try out his new weapon. Don’t forget, as the story goes on when Mahito needs the heron-man to turn back into heron so he can fly, the remedy is to fill the hole on the beak with the same material as his arrow. 

It's better for the doer to undo what he has done; Mahito has to repair what he has damaged with the very thing that causes the damage. Here the heron seems a malleable creature dictated by Mahito. Can we take a guess that the heron is no other than Mahito’s subconscious or detached psyche?

I developed this doubt when the heron presents to Mahito, the simulacrum of his birth mother lying on a couch, who melts down into the water as Mahito touched her. Yet, facing such an appalling scene, Mahito doesn’t get hysterical and behave traumatised(Yes, I am referring to Shinji in EVA). Why is he so indifferent? This is a question that awaits an answer. 

The heron’s action was later reproached by his master, who asked the heron to do nothing else than guide Mahito to the tower, to explore the underworld. So is the heron merely a minion of his master, who is later on revealed as Mahito’s great-great granduncle? Maybe not.

The Underworld

There are many magical and fantasy stuff in this world: ancient fish, ferocious pelicans and parrots, ghosts, fire and oval-like creatures. But what is this underworld’s essence? How do things work here? The first remarkable indication is that Mahito met a young robust woman who is no other than Kiriko, the old servant, who also got into the underworld with Mahito. In this world, she was still taking care of Mahito without any evident motivation, just like the little wooden statues of all the other old servants, who were laid around Mahito to protect him. They are still being servants. Another thing to notice is that Kiriko once asked Mahito to not touch the wooden statues of the servants. But Mahito touched them and even took away the statue of Kiriko, but nothing happened. 

Later on, we learn that this world is built by Mahito’s great-great uncle, who is also the master of the heron, and this conceptual world is on the verge of destruction. Yet, as the creator of this world, he leaves the fate of this world to Mahito, who has no intention to keep it. So in the end, everything is going into what Mahito wishes for. Everything happens so easily in the story. It is even fair to second guess if his great-great uncle is also a part of himself, let alone the heron. 

If everything was dictated by Mahito’s will in this world, can I conclude that this world works similarly to a fantasy, but it is not technically a fantasy? To verify this, we need to see how he gets along with his stepmother and his birth mother here. 

Mother 

Even though we know very early that the girl called Mimi is the sister of Mahito’s stepmother, which means this girl is Mahito’s mother; but it is almost at the end of the movie that we can be finally sure of this not-so-surprising fact. 

However, if we look back on the plot with this fact in mind, it is hard to understand how the birth mother can lead her son to search for his stepmother. Shouldn’t Mahito recognise her right away and forget about the stepmother? But the story didn’t go this way. As he called Natsuko mother, the world changes, all the white stripes are blown aloft to separate them. They are breaking a taboo, of forgetting who the real mother is. But Mahito didn’t regret it. He still wants to go back with her stepmother. 

Nevertheless, before coming back to the real world, Mahito asked Kimi if she wanted to go as well. Is this a genuine question, or merely a question out of courtesy and regretfulness? Just listen to what Mahito said, what an absurd excuse: what does it mean that she needs to stay here so that Mahito can be born; and she was born in the fire, so she wouldn’t be afraid of the conflagration in the far future? Is this story by now becoming that of “changing the present by going back to the past”? Of course not, we must believe this refusal is a way to make Mahito feel unguilty returning to his real world so that he can be with his new mother Natsuko. 

This is, in the end, what Mahito has understood from the book his mother left for him: What kind of life do you want to live? To live is to leave behind the past and to embrace the reality. 

Now we can understand why Mahito is so indifferent to a melt-away simulacrum of his mother. By that time he has begun to let her mother go. He doesn’t mind seeing her mother die again, just as he didn’t hesitate to go back to the real without her. 

Conclusion:

This story is about how a boy manages to accept his stepmother by forgetting his birth mother. 

01/01/2024

Some guesses on Kazuo Ishiguro as a person

Even though Ishiguro said in an interview in 1995 that when he writes a character in a novel, he won’t refer to himself; I am convinced that he has given himself away more than ever in those short stories, about who he is like as a person in life. Here I make a shortlist of the things and concepts that he has repeated telling across his novels and interviews. Keep in mind that they are merely guesses. 

The claustrophobia. 

He mentioned this in his Nobel prize lecture that he lived in a claustrophobic garret during his study time in Norfolk. In “Nocturne”, he used this word again to describe the miserable feeling of a ugly saxophone player seeing the world through the bandages on his face, after having received a plastic surgery: “Under the bandages, parts of my face throbbed awfully, others itched like hell and I had bouts of feeling hot and claustrophobic.” I have the reason to doubt that Kazoo Ishiguro has mild claustrophobia in his real life, otherwise it is a wise word choice to describe the devastating feeling of seeing a world through bandages on face. 

The failed musical career. 

It is no secret that Ishiguro aspired to be a rock star in his early twenties, he even went to California in the 70s to see if he could, by any chance, be appreciated or even signed by a label. Then he failed, we don’t know exactly why, but he vaguely mentioned in an interview that there's nothing wrong with his guitar playing, but something else more musical is missing. Again, we see in “Malvern Hills“, the main character who struggled to make his name in the music industry, has a good touch in guitar playing. And if we step back and see all these five stories in the distance, they are all disappointing lives associated with the love of music. Although Kazuo Ishiguro is now well acclaimed as a world-class writer, I can see he was still haunted by his old-time wrecked dream, at least before the creation of these short stories. Come on, he even knows the band audition process and the criteria! Nevertheless, I believe a successful writer's career has soothed his pain and trauma triggered by his failure in music; but for those who haven’t achieved the equivalent success but traumatised once by their failure in one field, it is hard to not feel sorry for being untalented. By the way, I can'f find any clip of Ishiguro playing music, please let me know if you have found any of these. 

The uneasiness of disturbing or being disturbed during sleep.

In “Come Rain or Come Shine“, when Emily realised her phone call had awakened Ray, who was sleeping in her home after a trip, she anxiously excused herself for disturbing his sleep. This nerve-racking plot has appeared many times in his novel “The Unconsoled“, a book about anxiety as Ishiguro said himself. I will give just one example. At the beginning of chapter 10, the main character and story teller Mr. Ryder is awakened in the morning by a phone call from the hotel manager Mr.Hoffman, who was asking for the right time to break bad news to him: “I had not been asleep long when the telephone rang beside my ear. I let it ring for a while, then finally sat up on the bed and picked up the receiver. ‘Ah Mr. Ryder, it’s me. Hoffman.‘ I waited for him to explain why he was disturbing me, but the hotel manager did not continue…” I can’t help to think that Ishiguro himself must have gone through this situation many times in real life as a disturber and disturbee. Given his Japanese background and British manners, I believe this conjunction isn’t far-fetched. 

Oh, what should I do to get love

昨晚去巴黎里昂车站附近的一个livehouse听Fazerdaze。说是晚上8点开始，于是我大概7点半就到了地方准备提排队，结果他们8点开始检票。等待期间我百无聊赖，打开Instagram，恰好看到Fazerdaze发的story，里面提到了今晚的活动表，结果我定睛一看，在她之前竟然有另一个歌手要表演。我非常不爽，我他妈的大老远过来是来听无名氏唱歌的吗？这也没在之前的节目单里提过啊？我甚至又打开了我的电子票，再三确认，希望这是只属于Fazerdaze的演唱会。不过再怎么不确定，等演唱会开始了就知道了。

检票了以后，我算是最先进去的一批人，站到了离舞台第三排的位置。舞台很小很小，就是地下室的一个小角落而已。就这么站着等了半个小时，终于有一个女生上台了，我以为她是livehouse的工作人员，上去调试设备了，后来却发现她似乎想对着麦克说什么，也就大概明白了，这就是今晚的无名氏solo歌手。

歌手开场讲话了，但大家很明显兴致都不高，有气无力地欢呼着。这位歌手简单打过招呼以后，很坦然地说，我在Fazerdaze之前表演压力真的很大，要是平常我还会讲很多笑话，但现在我得试点其它的办法。她说的办法，应该就是不让场子冷下来的办法吧？开唱了，是那种有点摇滚元素的法语民谣，乍一听其实还好的，但是随着歌曲发展，就开始重复一套模式，而且歌曲的和弦也都比较简单，节奏上也毫无groove。唱罢一首，歌手开始讲一些透着一股冷幽默的过场话，随后演唱的歌曲却一首比一首无聊。这让我想到了在美院时的文凭考试，最重要的事是调动评委情绪，让他们开心，然后就给个高分了。可惜在现实世界，事情没这么简单。倒数第二首歌之前，这位歌手说，我赶紧唱完，我们就可以一起欢迎Fazerdaze出场了。在场观众是啥感受我不知道，反正我第一反应是想鼓励她一下，但转念一想，噢Amelia要出场了，好耶。 她最后的即兴歌曲有一句歌词挺逗的，但笑完了也就忘了具体是啥。

她下场以后又过了半小时，Fazerdaze/Amelia终于来了。这次她没带乐队，一身非常文静的打扮，靓到不行，一上台就忙着调试设备，并用各种肢体语言和表情与隔着人潮的音响师沟通。 设备调试好了，吉他挂在肩上，programme也安排妥当，音箱里开始传出重打击感的快节拍旋律，所谓的groove一开场就有了。我试图跟唱，但一来歌词不熟，而来她现场有不少lay back和错拍切入的发挥，也就只好作罢。我比较诧异的是，她的某些电吉他音效竟然是木吉他转合成器实现的，难怪在专辑里听起来会有些干瘪的感觉。 我边听边想，虽然我是带着偏心喜欢她的音乐的，但不得不说这些技巧性音乐性的东西，是的的确确地是打动了我，触动了我。我甚至还想了一些关于音乐传统的问题，这种indie rock其实在英语世界有很多先驱，但我不知道那位无名氏歌手的音乐传承来自于哪。

我全场在摇头晃脑的状态中度过，但身边的法国人似乎都挺拘谨，除了每一首歌唱完的欢呼，并无特别多的反应。不过Amelia口才情商都很好，提到了两次无名氏歌手，也吐槽她从新西兰飞了30个小时到欧洲，现在人的状态还不太对劲。她讲话这么好听，她不唱歌在那里讲一晚上话我都没意见。 最后她唱完了成名曲lucky girl，就非常害羞地穿越人群跑出了表演场地。我也不打算听接下来的歌了，就快速地走了出去透气，结果发现她在门口拿着一杯红酒，和无名氏歌手聊天。褪去了歌手的光环，Amelia更像是那种有点文弱的小女生，看起来有些累，一条腿内弯地站着，一脸微笑地听旁边的女歌手的夸赞。 我很想和她打个招呼，但还是觉得没啥必要，安静地听她的歌就好啦。

哦，对了，那个无名氏歌手叫Blue reine，大家如果感兴趣的话可以去听听。

换护照 08/09/2023

我的护照明年六月份就过期了。为了不耽误明年夏天回国，就打算提前去领事馆换一下。令人不爽的是，要想提交材料，则必须下载一个手机程序，而且所有的文件还必须以照片格式上传。我折腾半天，把已有的pdf文件全导出为jpg，然后还扫描了不少手写的证明文件。但我扫到一半突然意识到，扫描出来的文件虽然精致清晰，但还是pdf文件，我还不如草率拍一张了事。于是我就上传了几张欠曝，但字迹可辨的照片，就当是惩罚领事馆人员了：抱歉，总有人得为设计了一个糟糕的申请程序负责。
 
文件全上传完毕以后，没等两天就收到了领事馆回复，说是缺材料，然后我就补。过了几天，看app又有提醒，以为是通过审批了，结果一看这次是照片不合规。他妈的不一次性跟我说完，于是我只好在家以最原始的方式，架起手机，用台灯打光，拍了一张能看的大头照，然后抠个图，草草地加个白色背景，总算是不辜负我是摄影系毕业这一事实。这次上传成功以后果然很快给我批准了，一个周以后就通知我去领事馆取。去中国领事馆办事可以随时去，只要在他们上班就行了，不需要像和法国机构打交道那样，必须得约好时间才能取，要是约不到就一直取不到。
 
我挑了周一去取，因为下午也有事，这样可以请假一天，上午的时间就拿来取护照。中国领事馆在巴黎市中心一条卖奢侈品的大街上，离凯旋门很近。我走过去的时候还路过一个非常豪华的宾馆，门口停满了豪车，远远望去能看到西班牙的国旗，但是却看不到五星红旗。等再走到一个外部被移动护栏给围起来，但是留了一个小缝作为入口的楼前，我就大概知道应该是到地方了。
 
到了地方，过安检，一个黑人保安大叔问我来干啥，我说取护照。于是他要我出示一下打印的证明纸，我说我没打印，给他看了看手机上的文件。他一皱眉头：哎呀这不好办啊。于是就给我一支笔和一半纸，让我把取证号抄一下。我抄完，就拿着纸进去了，进来一看，好家伙，弄的像个宾馆大堂，远处有个取号机。我走上前，但前面有个女士在操作，我就隔了几步等待。
 
可是那位女士似乎遇到了问题，一边操作一边往大堂入口的方向看，似乎是找工作人员。她注意到了我，于是问我这个机器咋操作。唯一让我有点迟疑的是，她是用法语说的，但我也没多想，也用法语回复，问她想干啥，她说要更新护照。我瞅了一眼屏幕，看到了相关的取号按钮，但是一点击就显示缺纸的错误提醒信息。我很无奈，说没纸了，可能得等会；紧接着我就听到了，一连串熟悉的法式咒骂，从这位女士口中飞出——如果翻译成中文的话，那可能是：我真他妈的服了，这啥几把玩意啊…… 我忍不住打量起这位女士：她大概不到40岁吧，身材消瘦，戴着口罩，但打扮绝对不老气。她手里拿着一个透明的文件袋，里面竟然还有她的大头照。再看旁边，一个猪肝红的护照，闪着中国国徽的图案。
 
过了一会，来了一个小哥问我们咋回事，我和那位女士异口同声地说没纸了。工作人员换完纸后，她也成功地取到号，还是用法语和我道谢，我也压低嗓音说不客气。
 
我也取了号，进了大厅，找了个地方坐着，看屏幕等着被叫号。我看那位女士在大厅里焦急地走了一个来回，也找了个地方坐着了，离我不远，她应该比我先被叫到。果然，她被叫到一个窗口，里面坐了一个中国大叔。大叔没抬眼，静静地等着她交上材料。女士迟疑了一下，用法语说：要我把这些都给你吗？大叔没直接回复，用浓厚的北京腔普通话问了一句，是本人吗？但我没听到女士回复，只看见她把护照交了过去。大叔拿起护照，翻开，朗声说道：你东北的啊？女士还是没回话，但我看她双腿都收到椅子腿后面去了。大叔让她说先在大厅里等一下，一会叫她来取。于是女士起身，下一个就轮到我了。我交上旧护照，说明了来意，但奇怪的是我都听得出来我说话的语调里竟然染上了点北京腔。我最他妈的烦北京腔了，丫的装逼。
 
随后我也在旁边坐着等。坐着无聊，还是没忍住瞄了一眼旁边的那位女士，可惜她戴着口罩，看不到她的表情；如果再看一眼她的透明文件袋，她的大头照一脸的冷酷。嗨，看不出来啥的，谁在法国拍大头照不是一副苦大仇深的表情，我对自己说。马上就到她取护照了，大叔熟练地把刷卡机推过去，说，十六。女士熟练地把卡凑上去，嘀的一声，结完，护照也到手了，收拾东西，全放到包里，走人。她离开座位的时候，我起身往前，还听见她以非常低的声音和我用法语说：再见。我装作没听见，也几乎做了和她一样的动作，刷卡，拿到护照，走人。
 
我拿完护照，翻开看了一眼：自己照的照片还是有点丑，自己上传的签名也给我缩小了不少，不知道的以为我签字非常小气；至于其它的则没啥，只不过签发地点写成了法国巴黎，看着还挺洋气来着。
 
我出门之际，发现那位女士还没走，还坐在椅子上，在很焦躁地在包里翻什么东西，一边找，一边振振有词用同样说辞的法语咒骂：我真他妈的服了，这啥几把玩意啊…… 
 
走啦，回家啦，下午还得去拔牙呢。