Folding her arms and closing her eyes, Hatsumi sank back into the corner of the seat. Her small gold earrings caught the light as the taxi swayed. Her midnight blue dress seemed to have been made to match the darkness of the cab. Every now and then her thinly daubed, beautifully formed lips would quiver slightly as if she had caught herself on the verge of talking to herself. Watching her, I could see why Nagasawa had chosen her as his special companion. There were any number of women more beautiful than Hatsumi, and Nagasawa could have made any of them his. But Hatsumi had some quality that could send a tremor through your heart. It was nothing forceful. The power she exerted was a subtle thing, but it called forth deep resonances. I watched her all the way to Shibuya, and wondered, without ever finding an answer, what this emotional reverberation that I was feeling could be.
It finally hit me some dozen or so years later. I had come to Santa Fe to interview a painter and was sitting in a local pizza parlor, drinking beer and eating pizza and watching a miraculously beautiful sunset. Everything was soaked in brilliant red—my hand, the plate, the table, the world—as if some special kind of fruit juice had splashed down on everything. In the midst of this overwhelming sunset, the image of Hatsumi flashed into my mind, and in that moment I understood what that tremor of the heart had been. It was a kind of childhood longing that had always remained—and would forever remain—unfulfilled. I had forgotten the existence of such innocent, all-but-seared-in longing: forgotten for years to remember what such feelings had ever existed inside of me. What Hatsumi had stirred in me was a part of my very self that had long lain dormant. And when the realization struck me, it aroused such sorrow I almost burst into tears. She had been an absolutely special woman. Someone should have done something—anything—to save her.
But neither Nagasawa nor I could have managed that. As so many of those I knew had done, Hatsumi reached a certain stage in her life and decided—almost on the spur of the moment—to end it. Two years after Nagasawa left for Germany, she married, and two years after that she slashed her wrists with a razor blade.
It was Nagasawa, of course, who told me what had happened. His letter from Bonn said this: “Hatsumi’s death has extinguished something. This is unbearably sad and painful, even to me.” I ripped his letter to shreds and threw it away. I never wrote to him again.
Even now, the looming tree serves as a reflection of who we are and how we are connected. I imagine that when we first sat under it, our thoughts were not as similar as I had thought them to be when I was young. That does not matter now, but someday, I hope to ask you what you were thinking when you first saw it. We shared many forgotten memories under this tree; the lost conversations, the days when what was important was not why we were there or what we were doing, but the fact that we were there together.
Sometimes, I will wake up to a vivid memory of us with every detail as clear as the day it happened; the speckles of dirt that spotted your face on the day when you jumped in front of me to surprise me and went straight from a witty grin to a nervous embarrassed smile. Your lower lip just barely visible as you bit it and shyly looked away, my teenager self unable to realize what I had done wrong until midway through a thought you grabbed me and, kissed me, we both were as a bright as the painted red walls behind us when we heard whistles around us. Mostly, I wake up and recall a bit of lost memory; the feel of the faded yellow dress you only wore that last time we were there; I had bought it as a gift just that day at the thrift store on the way. Today, faded yellow dresses still line the walls where we bought your dress, but the store now goes by a new name.
The last time I left our tree, these memories were all together, every moment I thought of you it was like a fast forward through the scents that all combined into you. Nowadays, even as I stare at the drifting leaves of our tree, the memories that were once so many I now desperately reach out and grasp them, hoping to hold them for moments longer before they slip away. The bark of the willow tree is scarred by our marks, made by the knife that now sits in the waters of the Mississippi; maybe had I not thrown it away would another of our memory still be with me. But this tree is all that is left of us.
The first time I met you, you had already been introduced to who I was almost everyday.
I was going into my third year and had taken a peculiar step backwards in terms of college social interactions. Friends joked that my life was not filled with the sweet caress of a gentler touch nor the companionship of alcohol and bros, but by the haunting melody of my record player and the click-klack of worn stones repeatedly hitting the Go Board.
It had been during the summer that I was first introduced to the record player. It was small, subtle, a hidden marvel of my first home. I spent the majority of that summer walking to and from Vinyl Vintage, experimenting with records and tunes that I was already familiar with but had never truly experienced. With it, I became something of an addict, preferring the melody over the enjoyable chatter of friends upstairs. For Go, it had been many years since I had grown fond of it, and it was and is the only atmosphere that collects who I am. Today, although my hands cannot quite collect the stones that in my early years had become familiar in my nimble fingertips, their feel lingers just like the memory of when I first met you sitting under our tree.
Sitting under that tree, holding a book in one hand and a black stone in the other, I did not hear the soft steps over the melody of the Beatles so it was not to my surprise that I dropped both stone and book when you said hi.
It took a dozen or so years later, going home to a garage sale that I began to replay our memories. The intertwining of hands beneath our sapling tree. The vivid eyes, the remembering smile. I bought the record and brought it to my own home, drowning myself in the haunting melody of Norwegian Wood.
Of course, it now seems ironic that you first met me through my music, since I was neither then or now an avid music listener nor knowledgeable about music. You told me that, back when you lived near the same metro stop that I used, the scratching buzz of the record player and the often haunting melody of the melodies that accompanied me in my early age also became a peculiar presence in your walk home. Curious what music brings you.
I knew that one day I would meet you again, whether it would be as I lounge lazily under our tree or after I forget you. When I promised you memories, I did not realize the torture I would endure to realize my promise. Your memories exist in the very atmosphere that surrounds me; the faint scent and melody of Norwegian Wood even now accompany me as the fresh spring breeze envelops me in her warmth.
I think that tomorrow, I will surely have forgotten you. Today is a final homage to a life lived in your memories, the sweet succulent scent that has remained by my side.
I enjoy studying, not history, but people who mark an era. In the basketball world, Yao Ming has (I can confidently say) just marked the end of an era. So here's a post from Grand about Yao and his legacy:
The Legacy of Yao
Examining the career of a once-in-a-generation player
Jeff Van Gundy is already concerned. Hours after news leaked of Yao Ming's retirement from the NBA, Van Gundy predicts Yao's play on the court might eventually be forgotten, that the original difficult transition Yao made look so easy would be downplayed and that his contribution to the league would be categorized in terms of global dollars and not his influence on the Houston Rockets.
"People are saying he was pretty good," says Van Gundy, who coached Yao after his rookie season in Houston for four seasons.1 "No, he was dominant. He could play. You could make the case he didn't do it for long enough to be considered an all-time great. But this guy was dominant when he played. In his age group, he was the best center," Van Gundy then pauses and offers the one qualifier as large as Yao that will ultimately follow him into retirement: "When healthy."
"People forget what kind of pressure he was on when he came over here, not totally comfortable with the language to start off with and being the first pick in the draft," Van Gundy continues. "People hoped he would fail. Some of the then-Rocket players wanted to trade the pick for Lamar Odom. The guy was under enormous pressure. He handled every bit of it with grace and wisdom, and he handled it flawlessly."
It is easy to forget the circumstances that surrounded Yao's entry in the NBA. He did not participate in training camp as a rookie and instead fulfilled commitments to China's national team. He had to be coaxed into dunking because he did not want to show up his opponents. He went scoreless in his NBA debut. Eventually, the world and the NBA became accustomed to Yao scoring with a deft touch, with either hand, from either side of the basket, from enough angles to fill up the pages of a geometry book. The fans he won over with this multifaceted offensive arsenal and gentle demeanor also became accustomed to Yao's injuries, his frail feet, and, through the years, the cruel reality that a body seemingly tailor-made to play center could not withstand the rigors of the position. Yao played in just 250 regular-season games over the past six seasons. As the injuries piled, he spent less and less time around the team's training facility, already distancing himself from the game and the inevitable realization that he would soon be forced to leave it behind. "He was in and out," says Shane Battier, a former teammate. "It was tough for him to be around. Knowing Yao, I think he felt he let his team down when he couldn't stay healthy. Which was absurd."
We are left to contemplate the career of a once-in-a-generation player who played only about 70 games in four seasons. While sifting through it, here are a few things to consider.
He connected the NBA to China in a way no other player could
While recalling the Rockets preseason trips to China, Battier says, "You understand what the Beatles felt like in Liverpool. It was hysteria. By sheer volume of people, he has to be the most recognizable person in the entire world. It was a lot of fun, and Yao did an unbelievable job with the pressures of 1.2 billion people behind him. It's something I'll tell my grandkids about."
The NBA had long targeted China as a fertile ground to expand the game's global interest. NBA commissioner David Stern appointed the league's first Beijing-based employee in 1990. Players began traveling there to host clinics in 1997. Still, the full potential of the league's popularity there went untapped until Yao's 2002 debut. It is difficult imagining Stern manufacturing a better ambassador than Yao. "The NBA got really lucky with Yao Ming, there's no question about that," says Clayton Dube, an expert on economic and political change in China and the associate director of the University of Southern California's U.S.-China Institute. Dube added that Yao's arrival came at an opportune time, along with the increasing influence of the Internet (allowing fans in China to vote for All-Star teams) and the rise of satellite television. "What's striking to me is the powerful impact Yao made here in America," he says. "That shouldn't be overlooked. He just really exemplified all that could be good in a person. That made a big difference."
Yao drove television ratings in China and fostered several international business sponsorships. Eventually, Shaquille O'Neal, Jose Calderon, Baron Davis, and others signed deals with China-based companies. Yao should have earned a commission on those deals.
"Jordan definitely was popular in China, and LeBron definitely is now, too," says Steven W. Lewis of the Baker Institute for Public Policy at Houston's Rice University. "The difference is Yao can speak in Chinese." Lewis briefly consulted with the Rockets on how to market Yao before he arrived. He imagines it will be difficult for the NBA to sustain as deep a relationship with fans in China now that the Yao has retired from play. "The level of the NBA's penetration in China is already significant," Dube says. "But I would expect a fallout, now that you won't have the default, 'How are the Houston Rockets doing?' perspective."
Yao was not just tall, he was good
Despite his well-documented and extensive injuries, Yao scored the most points of any center between 2002 and 2009. The Lakers might have been out one of their championships had Yao stayed healthy in 2009. Shortly after Yao guided the Rockets to what would be his only playoff win in a series against the Portland Trail Blazers, he dominated the opening game of a second series against the Lakers with 28 points and 10 rebounds (Pau Gasol and Andrew Bynum had a combined 24 points). In the third game of the series, team officials diagnosed Yao with a sprained ankle. Further tests revealed a fracture. He would play in only five more games the rest of his career. "This guy was a great worker and he refined his game so much in the low post," Van Gundy says. "This guy's preparation to play was second to none than anybody I've ever coached."
When asked if Yao should be in the Hall of Fame, Van Gundy, who does not hide his bias, said, "Without question. I don't care if you do it as a player or as a contributor or make up a new category for what he goes in as."
Yao could have dominated the NBA from around 2007 to 2014
Think about it. The best perimeter players Yao played with were Steve Francis, Cuttino Mobley, and Tracy McGrady. Francis' career sputtered fast, and he last played professionally in China (his popularity there no doubt aided by being a former teammate of Yao), Mobley's current career plans included opening a medical marijuana dispensary, and McGrady, despite his early brilliance, was always a phenomenally gifted scorer whose poor work habits tanked his great potential. In Yao's third season, the last that would see him play in at least 80 games, the Rockets cycled through 23 players because of injuries. Still, with Yao and McGrady healthy, they finished 51-31. Imagine if Yao could have been paired with any number of dominant wing players. When healthy, Yao had no peer. Dwight Howard is by far the best remaining center, but in nine head-to-head matchups, Yao's Rockets went 7-2 against Howard's Orlando Magic. In the meetings, Yao averaged 23.6 points and 10.4 rebounds to Howard's 12.2 and 9.8 rebounds.
His retirement highlights the plight of the dominant NBA center. Yao and O'Neal, two global icons, retired within the span of four weeks. Back in Yao's rookie season, the two got off to a rocky start when O'Neal made racially insensitive remarks. But they represented the last of a dying breed, and Yao gained O'Neal's respect; if you doubt it, check their respective Twitter feeds. While Yao offers no hints of his own future on his page, his third-most recent tweet wishes O'Neal a happy retirement: "He was a great champion and player. I wish him success and happiness." One of O'Neal's most recent messages is a video of him discussing Yao's retirement. "Let's go on vacation boy, me and you," he says.
Their retirements only underscore the lack of quality options for teams at center, a position that used to be the conduit coaches ran game plans through. Before the 2004-05 season, the NBA tightened the enforcement of banning hand and forearm checking by perimeter defenders, a decision that sparked a renaissance among point guards and marginalized big men throughout the league. "Everybody is playing on the perimeter," Van Gundy says. "In the NBA, the post player is able to get clubbed, beaten on legally, where on the perimeter, you can't touch anybody. It's just natural that the game has gravitated there." Howard is the best of what's left — with a significant gulf between him and the likes of Andrew Bynum, Brook Lopez, Andrew Bogut, and Nene.
Out of all the great centers who ever played, Yao is the only one who never even played in a conference finals
Scroll through the list of great centers: Mikan, Wilt, Kareem, Russell, Shaq, Moses Malone, Hakeem, Patrick Ewing. All of them played for a championship. Heck, even Arvydas Sabonis played in a couple of conference championships. Which leads us to the strongest and most legitimate strike against Yao's legacy on the court. "He didn't have that deep playoff run," Battier says. "It's tough to have an enduring legacy without that. At his height, he was one of the most dominating players in the game. When he was healthy and in form, he couldn't be stopped. That's how I'll always remember him. I don't know if history will be as kind."
Someone apparently put a curse on the 2002 draft class
Yao, the first overall pick, lasted only 486 games. The Chicago Bulls chose Duke's Jay Williams second only to see his career end with a motorcycle crash after his rookie season. Mike Dunleavy Jr. (third overall to Golden State) and Drew Gooden (fourth to the Memphis Grizzlies) carved sustainable careers, but ones utterly unworthy of their high selections. They were followed by Nikoloz Tskitishvili, one of the all-time great busts, and Dajuan Wagner, who had his career derailed by a colitis condition. (You can't make this stuff up.) Beyond Yao, Amar'e Stoudemire (ninth), Caron Butler (10th), and Carlos Boozer (35th) are the only players from their class to make an All-Star team. Luis Scola, Yao's former running mate, was the third-to-last-pick that year and is now arguably the second-most productive draftee of that class.
Yao was one of the NBA's funniest personalities
Once, before members of the Rockets took a drug test, Yao gazed around the room, smiled, and asked his teammates: "Why am I the only one not nervous?"
Yao's quick wit was legendary among his teammates and the media. His longest running joke concerned his hearing: Yao is partially deaf in his left ear, the result of an allergic reaction to medicine as a child. No one could blame him for using his hearing to as an excuse to ignore the constant gawkers that a man who stands 7-foot-6 draws. But, remembers Battier, "He always did a great job of pretending he didn't hear you, especially when he missed an assignment. Yao wasn't as deaf as he made himself out to be."
"He always heard me when I said, 'Yao get Dikembe,'" Van Gundy says, laughing. "But when I talked pick-and-roll defense, then the language barrier became much more dramatic." The fact that Yao could use humor so quickly after arriving in the United States was in many ways his secret weapon, one he often used to buy time or deflect attention from the questions that he did not want to answer. Jonathan Feigen, the Rockets beat writer for the Houston Chronicle, once asked Yao the topics of a team meeting early in his NBA career. Yao, Feigen said, leaned toward him and whispered (in English), "I don't know. I don't understand English."2
Yao has already shown interests in areas outside of the NBA
He owns the Yao Restaurant & Bar in Houston and the Shanghai Sharks, the Chinese basketball club with which he honed his skills. He is also contemplating attending college. "Yao doesn't want our pity," Van Gundy says. "I feel bad for him. But Yao has so much to offer than just playing basketball. If he doesn't want to do that, he'll contribute in other areas. He can do what he wants. I feel badly for him, that his career was cut short because of injury, but this is not a guy who's not going to be able to find himself outside of the game."
Jonathan Abrams is a staff writer for Grantland. Follow him on Twitter at @jpdabrams.
I recently switched over to blogging on blogspot instead of talking to myself through moleskines for two simple reasons: I am lazy and the chance of me losing this data over my moleskines in say...a flood that happened 3 or 4 weeks ago is much lower.
But then I read this article about college libraries. Can you imagine a life without flipping through the pages of Harry Potter? Cringing as Harry and Ginny kiss, tense when Dobby gets knifed. After thinking about it, I imagine that many people can. Kids these days have cellphones, ipods, laptops, internet, all at the tips of their fingers. When I was in ninth grade, I had just gotten a laptop. I didn't have a cellphone. My sister didn't get a laptop until college. My dad? After my sister got hers.
So this post is to remember the feeling of turning pages in hopes that there will not be a day when a turn of the page is just a click away.
So maybe one day I will tell my grandkids: "Back when I was a young lad..." I wasted trees on paper? I had access to paper? Where does the environmentalist in me go? Confused and lost I guess
So I just back to St. Louis from New Orleans, a dreadful 10-11 hour drive (left at 8a, got to my house at 7p) that equipped me with extreme tolerance to Country Music and a headache from all the country music. I decided to post today (instead of yesterday) because I found this interesting article on CNN today that talked about identity and the ABC Experience (American Born Chinese). So I am ABC (and proud of it!) and, as many ABC's are familiar with, am heavily involved in the current Asian culture that has emerged: Asian Hipster, Breakdancing, hiphop, youtube, Alexandra Wallace, Tiger Mom, etc. Disclaimer: this culture isn't just for ABCs.
So I'll let you guys read this interesting article about the ABC identity crisis and the solution that most of us come up with: American everyday, Chinese sometimes.
When I was reading this article, it brought me back to three days ago (Sunday) when I went to DimSum at the New Orleans Hong Kong Market Plaza's Panda King Buffet. Probably one of the best DimSum restaurants I have ever had outside of Asia, my family went there the first and last Sunday that my sister or me was in town (since we're now out and about outside the house). Excited about the prospect of reading about and getting voraciously hungry over descriptions of the delectable cuisine available at DimSum restaurants, I was surprised to find discussion on cultural identity and the Bamboo Ceiling, something I had only seen referenced when talking about Chinese girls and their prospects of marrying into an economic status.
But I just want to highlight some key points that I think we should all reflect on:
"Yes, I can vote and I have the right to bring suit if I feel someone is infringing on my freedoms, but am I an American in the Jerry Maguire sense? Can a Chinese brother obtain “the kwan”? Furthermore, how do we deal with duality? Are we Americans in the way that other people are?"
What does it really mean to be "American?" I read an article recently about the importance of immigration in America and how it keeps our workforce young and able. For people born in America, we are seen as the potential for opportunity and prosperity that our immigrant parents dreamed about when they fought tooth and nail to reach America. So we are just a part of the American Dream.
But Eddie Huang describes an interesting perspective, that of an Asian mother realist: what use is being American if you can't succeed like people now do back in the motherland? Us Chinese can be some of the richest people in the world (just go to HK and you'll see what I mean). At the same time, the "American Dream" position in America actively and obviously limits us Asian Americans.
“But they are Chinese! They don’t look American. They’ll never be equal here. In Taiwan, their kids can be politicians or CEO! Here, no matter what, they don’t look American!”
How depressing is that? I know that, while going to Asia is always fun for me, I would probably say no to living there. It's just not who I am. Without America, I feel like I'm split in half and missing a piece. I'm American Born Chinese, not just Born Chinese.
Huang's perspective, however, was curious. I cannot say I was fascinated by his response, but I definitely understood it:
"my mother’s question...extremely important to Asian America as it was to Italian and Jewish America before us. I mean, what was the Godfather Trilogy about? There may never be a Senator Corleone or Honorable Eddie Huang, but the world has enough politicians. It could use a few more opera singers and pork buns."
I cannot agree with simply because he sounds to satisfied. He sounds like he has given up hope. The bamboo ceiling can't be broken. Us Asian Americans just can't have certain jobs. But look at New Orleans: home to the first Vietnamese American Congressman. Eddie, even if we haven't shattered the bamboo ceiling, we're picking at it, slowly cutting it down. I understand that it seems like us Asians will always be stuck with the "Alexandra Wallace" perspective of us being foreign and speaking only in ching chong ling long ting tong language, but we are emerging. We dominate youtube and we are present in media (think Glee?).
What's another thing I disagree about? Your reason for why we can't get out:
"This experience is something America has seen the Kennedys, Corleones, and now Huangs face: a social salary cap."
Immigrants as a whole may not be the richest population, but the Chinese American community definitely is not lacking. While I agree money is necessary, in today's world, something is even more necessary than money, personality and skill. The error, I believe, that we possess (if you can even call it an error), is exactly what is demonstrated by the Tiger Mother: we aren't taught the skills necessary to survive in the real world. Why do you think so many of our college graduates become doctors or go into academia? Because our forte isn't our personal relations skills; we possess skills, but we find it hard to communicate them. This definitely isn't applicable to every case. But this isn't something that can be dealt with individually. As a community, we are perceived as unable to communicate, lacking in social skills. Look at the media: we can dance, but can we talk and make jokes? Or, if you put it in another perspective, how often does Harry Shum actually talk in Glee?
No matter what, at least in my lifetime, I will always be the “other” in this country. When I go back to China/Taiwan, I’m different there as well and realize that it’s an immigrant, not American, thing to be this aware of self.
I think that this statement and this statement
we choose to have a country that doesn’t technically belong to one “peoples.” Economically, politically, and in reality, it’s a different story, but at least on paper and in theory, it belongs to all of us.
are important pieces to think about. If you're an ABC, like me, do you accept yourself for who you are? Do you know that you are both American and Chinese? For me, that happened after Hurricane Katrina, when I was introduced to the "Chinese world": I realized that I could never truly just be American, so I embraced my Chinese heritage.
If you're American Born + (anything that fits), who are you? Does it really matter that you speak a different language other than English? We are the changing face of American history.
And if you're an immigrant, pray that the Constitution will not just be an empty promise to your children: a time when we truly become a nation of immigrants, home to all cultures with privileges given to none.
Well not really, but seeing IR when you've been blind most of your lives sounds pretty cool to me. The idea really isn't novel, but I found it fascinating that they would use viruses to implant new genes into the nerve endings in the eye that would react to lasers so that a blind person can see. Now this obviously won't work for every blind person, but it's still amazing.
Let's look at other eye-related-stuff too!
Other fixes: Here's a video by Dean Kamen about microscopic robots that can (in the future) prevent blindness! Check out the other pretty cool videos there that talk about Bionic Limbs and spaceship like cars.
Donating to the cause:
Kayu Bamboo Sunglasses are sunglasses with bamboo rims that donate $50 USD to charity because "80% of blindness is curable or preventable, yet 36 million are needlessly blind.”
So today I spent a really long time (not that long but it felt long) washing my NEW (that is 10 years old) car! Why? I am driving up to St. Louis tomorrow. Yes that is 10 hours long. So in-between spraying Windex on my windows and swinging the foot mats? against a wall to clear the dust (from 10 years accumulation), I realized that, like stepping off that plane by myself to go to college two years ago, this was just another step towards real life.
Now onto owning a home. It's quite a serious topic to think about so early in my career, but I thought it would be interesting to try and think about it when I did not want to wash my car instead of when I actually need to. It is the mind set I am trying to develop as I enter into my later college years: Plan ahead, persevere, and only then will you improve.
With that, I would like to leave myself with these two interesting innovations: 1) from the buyer's view and 2) from a city's view.
1) Echoing Carl Elefante's "The greenest building is the one already standing," Dave LeBlanc's "Architecture Lover's Manifesto"
And I quote:
1. In this age of soaring energy prices, I will ask myself if I really need 4,000 square feet and more bathrooms than people in my home. No matter how green I buy or build, 2,000 square feet will always be more efficient than 4,000. If I falter, I will repeat this quietly to myself: "I didn't have an entire basement playroom when I was a kid or my very own bathroom, and I turned out fine."
2. I will consider buying an older home over a new one. Older homes are usually in established neighbourhoods; this means I can walk to do some errands, just like my grandparents did. Even if I must replace a furnace, a roof or windows, or even take down a wall, I am still celebrating the fact that the greenest building is the one that already exists.
3. Before I demolish, I will Google "embodied energy."
I am posting this article in response to my having a car, but it is also in response to the forests in my home that are being cut down in order to erect living communities. Why do we need new homes when there are houses all over New Orleans that are empty? Why do we need homes our country has so many foreclosed homes?
It ends in 7 days, but the UK Pylon Design Competition isn't about buying a home necessarily, but how we power our homes. It's about innovation, it's about design, it's about community, and it's all in the UK's aim to ensure an 80% cut in carbon emissions by 2050. Why? Because they're part of C40 and they are one of tens of major cities around the world joining forces to become more efficient, to become more green, and to become better cities. Competition Description:
This new RIBA Competition invites architects, engineers, designers and university level students of these disciplines to come up with proposals for a new generation of electricity pylon. As well as exploring the design of the ‘object’, this competition also seeks to explore the relationship between our energy infrastructure and the environment within which it needs to be located. The challenge is to design a pylon that has the potential to deliver for future generations, whilst balancing the needs of our communities and preserving the beauty of our countryside.
I look forward to seeing how the winning design of this competition will be implemented in the UK.
So that's all for right now, I have some other thoughts I will be talking about later.
Single Yellow Grass hidden invisible in a field of green life.
Staring at the ocean of green that enveloped this world would do nothing to satisfy your knowledge of this place. Like a child trying to understand how a movie is created by just looking at the trailer, only the surface of this body of life would be evident in your gaze. I am a shadow that hides behind the shifting waves of green, controlled only by the whim of the sifting air. A hidden yellow stain that is the only evidence of those left behind.
When I was pure and just emerging into life, I was full of expectant hope and wonder at all that surrounded me. I carried myself freely in the wind, drifting in the sea of vibrant green, not noticing anything but embracing everything. My only thoughts were to go vibrant and green like those that surrounded me.
That really was the only chance for me to grow.
I lost it when I lost everything and was stolen away. By the whim of a greater life than me, I was pulled from the earth and cast into a sea of enemies. From the warm embrace of my fellows I entered the cold shackles of those I did not know, and as the shackles turned to warmth, I was stained by their deceptive embrace. When lightning came and cried in fear and to avoid death I was tainted there. I swallowed my pride and with it came fear, fear of the unknown, the new, it all scared.
Patches of hope remained in me, like little lights scattered from the sun that used to reach me. Now all there really is are these dwindling spots that run dry like blood, yet staining my skin only yellow...and now I am quiet, a still thought waiting for nothing. For the me I was is gone and beyond my shattered home lies only me ruled by anger and fear.
So for the anything that is left in me from what I was, let it wait until someone comes, for that is the only thing that will set me free from these shackles that chain and bind me to my masters, like those clouds trapped in the sky today, for they are freed only for a time whenever who they are falls, smacking hard as it hits the ground.
