This is a translated excerpt of the 2024 project "Gone with the rainy season". php.Element.Def.Pdf_Fallback Io sentia d’ogne parte trarre guai
e non vedea persona che’l facesse; per ch’io tutto smarrito m’arrestai.” -- Dante’s Inferno, Canto XIII: 21-24. 1. Ashley cannot sleep. Before her bed, moonlight shines too brightly through her window (or at least that’s how she remembers it). The world is so still in her white little room that she cannot tell the hour. In silence, she sits up and peers through the window. She imagines a breeze coming through the silt. 2. It seems that her time alone is frozen in the stream of life, and that there is nothing in the world that beseeches her in the little room where she stays. In this eternal silence, the door slowly creaks open behind her. Ashley. Startled, Ashley beams into a smile as she hears the familiar voice of the kind gentleman. You are here! She bursts into the laughter of a summer bird. Of course I am; we made a promise. The tall figure walks into the little room and sits down beside her bed; he touches her forehead. Ashley thinks his hand is rather cold. You don't have a fever today. But of course I don't, I behaved well. Good. Did you do your assignments? And out of his brown suitcase, he pulls out some scrambled papers-- Ashley hears the rustling of the paper and sits up straight, which makes the gentleman smile. He covers his lips so that he does not laugh, and then he clears his throat, changing into a stern, serious look. Begin, please. And then she narrates the story in such a manner as if each word is inscribed into her memory. It is how one reads, she has always thought. Learning by heart is the only way for her to connect to the outside world. The world she had never understood. 3. Why did Virgil ask Dante to break the branches? This is actually a good question. Do you have your Aeneid? Yes, but... You find Virgil mean. Apparently! But what was Dante’s reaction? How did he react towards Virgil? And the souls? Do you think Virgil should have acted otherwise? He walked to turn on some lamplights. Ashley straightened her back. I think I heard something. Nothing is there, Ashley. But certainly, something is there-- Come back here. Okay. She sinks back into her bed. Crouching on her pillow, she holds the rose between her thumbs. Good. Can you answer my questions now? Yes. She replies patiently, though she has no idea what the question is. She ends up murmuring a little whisper: Sorry... I lost track. The Lamb smiles upon noticing her guilt and speaks kindly: Would you tell me where Dante and Virgil are in this passage? Excuse me, who? She responds to the stillness outside the window. 4. Once upon a time, there was a little girl whose name was Ashley. Ashley had long black hair that touched her knees, and a pair of big grey eyes that sought the sunlight. She lived in a little room with a little window. Next to the window was a little bed where she lay alone. Beside the little bed, a little table held an open book on its warm white surface. Everything around her was white, including a white little rose beside her white little table, which was next to her white little bed. It was a white little rose wrapped with a black ribbon, smelling like the fresh meadows in early spring. Sometimes, the Lamb would enter her white little room, and they would journey a little together in Dante’s Inferno. More Information about the publication at L/NT Art Collective:
Audio recording/ https://www.lintartcollective.com/work/lint-issue-01-2021-ng8p9 Magazine gateway/ https://issuu.com/lintartcollective/docs/moscovita-cult-magazine-a4 I am not free.
I am a butterfly trapped in a jar. The boys caught me in the wild, tricked me with their honeyed tongue. I fluttered my way out, they see it as a dance. Dance! Dance! Dance! They cried. Startled by the horrifying noise, I fluttered some more. But all I could do, Was making some weak noises on the glass. The sun light scorches me. The air boils. They ordered me to dance some more. Shouting, yelling, screaming, Beating the jar, with eyes magnifying on the glass. Then you will be free. They said. I fluttered, fluttered, fluttered some more. And my mind wandered. To the trees, the rivers, and the honey. The flowers watched. Dancing with the breeze, Silently, gently, danced with the breeze. I have grown tired. I thought. So, so, so very tired. And I started to dance, With the song of the nature, I had truly loved. Ah, how ugly it is. The wings are broken. It is no use for specimen now. They opened the lid. And I fell out, quietly. On the grass that nourished my childhood. The sky, the sun, and the flowers looked at me. That was some sweet honey. I thought. Dream, dream, dream away. And the boys grew The flowers slept, The earth hid my body away. I am not free. I am a butterfly trapped in a jar. The crowd clattered, clattering,
The noise died down in the shade of winter sunlight. She is the center of the stillness. Silence submerged, submersed. Rising from the hustle, bustle, rustle, tussle, Is a star, still as its ornamentation. And the earth continues to rotate. In her own path, she is alone, Drifting in her thoughts. She wonders at the rise and fall of the earth's landscape, Yet it does not reach the depth of her realm. The sailor climbed a palm tree. Would you accompany me? he asked. The star sailed its own reflection And swam with the fish in the sea. The sailor sailed, turning his rudder, Calling for the star, praising her beauty. But the star, mounting the waves, Shattered into a thousand pieces of light. The star heard the call of the sailor, from afar, far, far away. The seer could not see without her guide. The sky harmonizes her inner silence. In the gentle, gentle night, The sailor sails toward his oasis, And the star never sees him again. Passing the borders once again.
Roman rain replaced the dry, cold wind of Berlin. Strange voices beside my ears. My senses are open. What is it like to be in Europe once again? “Cinese, Cinese” I hear it all the time. Every word of knowledge condensed into a symbol, a pronoun, an utmost simplification of the Asian face. Words. Words. Words. The most superior invention of the human race. “Sono Taiwanese.” Repeated words dissolve into the vast terminology of languages. Sono tornata a casa. It is late again. Il fumo. Moonlight contours half of his face under the starry sky. One of his legs rests on the porch. A contrapposto. He ciao-ed my neighbors. I sat on the stairs, moonlight caressing his gentleness. Stillness. Come un quadro. “What are you thinking?” The brown met the blue. “My time used to run at full speed. It is just a part of my work.” Inala il fumo. “It seems that my time stops when I am here.” “One day, I have to decide which is the dream.” Lo soffia via. “And is this what you want?” Silence. “Now?” Warm light. Breath. Sì. My Taiwanese flag is the witness. “Lamentations I heard on every side
but I saw no one who might be crying out so that, confused, I stopped.” (Hollander’s translation of Dante’s Inferno, Canto XIII: 21-24) 1. Ashley cannot sleep. Before her bed moonlight shines too brightly through her window (or at least it is the moonlight that she remembers). In her white little room, the world is so still she could not tell which hour it is. In a silence she sits up and peers through the window. She imagines breeze coming through the silt. 2. It seems that her time alone is frozen in the stream of life, and that there is nothing in the world that will beseech her in the little room where she stays. In this eternal silence the door slowly creaked open behind her. Ashley. Ashley jumped, beaming into a smile as she heard the familiar voice of the kind gentleman. You are here! She burst out into the laughter of a summer bird. Of course I am; we made a promise. The tall figure walked into the little room, and sat down beside her bed; he touched her forehead. Ashley thought his hand was rather cold. You don't have a fever today. But of course I don't, I behaved well. Good. Did you do your assignments? And out of his brown suitcase he pulled out some scrambled papers-- Ashley heard the rustling sound of the paper and sat up straighter which made the gentleman smile. He covered his lips so that he does not laugh, and then cleared his throat to change into a stern serious look. Begin, please. And she narrated the story in such manner as if each word is inscribed in her memory. It is how one reads, she has always thought. Learning by heart is the only way for her to connect to the outside world. The world she had never understood. 3. Why did Virgil ask Dante to break the branches? This is actually a good question. Do you have your Aeneid? yes, but... You find Virgil mean. Apparently! But what was Dante’s reaction when the branch is torn? What was Dante’s reaction towards Virgil? And the souls? Do you think Virgil should react otherwise? He walked to turn on some lamplights as Ashley straightened her back. I think I heard something. Nothing is there, Ashley. But certainly, something is there— Come back here. Okay. She sank back into her bed, crouching on her pillow, she held the rose between her thumbs. Good. Can you answer my questions now? Yes. She replied patiently, though she had no idea what the question was. She ended up murmuring with a little whisper: Sorry... I lost track. The Lamb smiled as he noticed her guilt, and spoke again in a kind manner: Would you tell me where Dante and Virgil are in this passage? Excuse me, who? She responded the stillness outside the window. Ashley— there is noth— Ashley, if you cannot concentrate on your courses I will be leaving now— Ashley turned back immediately. Ashley does not need me anymore, she has all her Dante in her mind. I must pack up my stories back in my suitcase and— No! The gentleman stopped. The small figure had blocked his way. Ashley's tearful face was buried in his suitcase. He placed his hand on her shoulder. I am sorry, child. Please do not leave. I am sorry— I am not going anywhere. Come. He sat beside her, looking into the grey-washed wall that cracked open in a shape of a rose’s throne. What is it that you heard Ashley? I don't know. I thought I ought to answer... perhaps it is the wind. Do you want me to check for you? Ashley? 4. Once upon a time, there was a little girl whose name was Ashley. Ashley had long black hair that touched her knees, and a pair of big grey eyes that sought the lights of the sun. She lived in a little room where there was a little window. Beside the window there was a little bed, where she lay alone. Beside the little bed, there was a little table where a book lay open on its warm white surface. Everything around her was white expect a little rose beside her white little table, which was beside her white little bed. It was a red little rose wrapped with a black little ribbon, which smelt like the fresh meadows in early spring. Sometimes, the Lamb would enter her white little room, and they would journey a bit together in Dante’s Inferno. Revised from 2018 short story "Story of a Lamb." It was a cool afternoon at Kings College. She was sitting beside the building of Maughan Library, on the old wooden bench beside the building entrance. The students were preparing for their finals and so was her, writing the final drafts of a final paper. Entering the left hand side of the building, she would have headed in, turn, and walk on the swirling stairs that goes up into the shelves with latin literature collections.
It was not the books themselves that fascinated her the most, but the scent of the ancientness that the books give out when she sat down amongst them, her back facing the wall of books on Arthurian and medieval literature. Her mind would unwind as she, looking far off into the narrow road where she entered the building, would see the sunset right there beside her, fuming into the walls and inviting themselves in through the window glasses and land on her books, enshrouding them with a fumoir of the golden age. It was not the deep red autobuses and the loud commercing tourist spots that fascinated her, but the ancientness of the city, in the accent of the different classes of people that she sensed, the little smirks among the different skin tones she met, and the tall white buildings in its unmovable glory of the past that fascinated her. It was her working day, from ten in the morning to early afternoon, she would sit there, at times reading books of her own interests, other times, those concerning her studies in culture and performance, sometimes, she just sat amidst the shelves and zoomed out. No words are needed during those moments of satisfaction. It was a different day though, as she sat on the bench taking out her computer. The coolness of the mist came in through her coat. She had to find a place to stay for the rest of the day, for she had forgotten that it was not a library opening day. Students from other colleges like her, are not allowed to enter the library. A pigeon landed, pecked the floor, and flew away. A young man came out of the building and sat on the bench beside her, holding a cup of hot coffee, with his legs spread open and an arm extending the bench, seemingly to be enjoying himself. A few minutes later, some students entering the college gate greeted him. “You know what I like the most for non-opening days? No students from other colleges would gather here or use the library, just Kings.” He smirked with a raised tone in his voice. The other students replied hastily, with an awkward politeness “oh, yeah?” They quickly walked away, as the young man took another sip of the coffee. The story ended there. Whether she left for the next library, or headed home for a few groceries, she has forgotten. The day headed on, and she handed in her final paper on time, probably with the company of her favorite shrimp salad at Prets. This little moment stayed, leaving no changes in her on-going life. It was just an ordinary day with the sun gently shining through the mist of the early spring London, in the year 2019. |
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