| mercredi, février 28 |
| Half half...(28/2) |
It was a two-half story. The second half always follows the first half, but actually there is no obligation for the second one to be a follower. The second half, from its nature of existence, follows the route and path set by the first half of the story. Check the edge of the half orange remaining from the slide of the knife. The life of the second half is to complete what the first half has not completed. There is never an end, and sometimes it is true. Even the second half tries to accomplish the missing links the first half fails to achieve, this does not mean that the story can have an end after both. The second half is a recall of the discrepancies of the first half. Dualism. It becomes a total diagnosis at last. But the existence of the second half gets much fade out as it is borne to be a follower. I turned within the labyrinth of the second half of a nation of search and contemplation. Without the memory of the beginning, life may be more gorgeous. But a formula of the reason vs the result, it becomes a spiral that conscious individual fails to get rid of the boundaries that are installed from the moment that unconsciousness invades the cognitive process of generation. This time it was only a mid-night dream, divided unwillingly by my natural response to a threat of nightmare, but when the sky gets clear, it is the real start of the second half of life. Sometimes there is no choice.Libellés : dream, dualism, self, sense |
posted by zirhc @ 04:02   |
|
|
|
| mardi, février 27 |
| Tip to source...(27/2) |
 
Have a look of the hands of my guests, and they are the resumes of their past. Tears and fears may have been torn away, but the reasons remain. Their hands are big and warm, and this is a bell of welcoming notes. The hands are crafted in wind and snow. Surface chilled. They don’t need tattoo, and the flowers that blossom are their trademark. Look at their finger tips, they reflect mine. Molded edges flatten the sharpness of the offence. Revolution does not rely on acuteness. A reminder of the originality. Where does home hide? Fingers are meant to bend, and they bend as the path that leads them to a state of forgotten coma. The fact stays still, somewhere.Libellés : russia, self, sense |
| posted by zirhc @ 01:46 |
|
|
|
| samedi, février 24 |
| The whity moon orbit...(24/2) |
  
It’s been one month since the last dance was done. Pace is in vain. All get along in a powder of normality. Within a while, a titanic sinks into the deep darkening world of the forgotten. It is not as difficult as people may consider for the repatriation. It is not a matter whether it is in Paris or Hong Kong, or even in Moscow. My topographic identity is not based on the measurement of distance I am away from my dwelling. The visit to Stockholm some time ago reinforces my belief about the relationship between human and environment. An external factor can model the well being of a person. Rather than relying on the driving force from the external surrounding, it is also the perspective from the inner self that determines the existence of 'to be'. Hong Kong is not as cool as I remember, and it is not yet too materialistic to me. I am not fringed, and I am not the victim of the marginalisation or the residual of any collective thinking. This is indeed a very strange feeling, as least I do not expect to have this kind of weird feeling before I really landed on the piece of homeland whether it will be or not. A change of lifestyle, perhaps and the sense of value re-shape the landscape in front of me. I would say, the infiltration of the return in Hong Kong was perfectly fitted, though there lacks a thorough evaluation of myself. At the same time, I do miss the reflection of image of Paris on the Seine, well, it is good to be in memory.
One month passes quickly, a bit in a chaotic manner of distorting proportion of time. Time has exposed to me in a twisted manner. The nights seemed to be quiet, and the days last short. Time is white in colour in Hong Kong. I do not recall too much how things happened and disappeared. I didn't seem to have done much. No way to think, and no time to feel like thinking. Meeting with different kinds of people, and at the same time trying to recall the names of the people, it is a process of life to recall certain symbols or identifications and so proving the significance of the consciousness of 'to be'. Again, it is an extension of existentialism. I do not have any time to encounter the evening of the Victoria Harbour. It used to be shining on vivid colours which reinforced the Victorian era in Hong Kong. Sampans could still flow. I live in a certain extent in recalls and memories. Sometimes it becomes uneasy to distinguish from either end of life from the opposite direction. Antipodes. Quite some time of the month has been spent in the choking cabinet of the shaking flights, and they were the only brainstorming sessions to keep my mind vibrated, as least it appeared so. So after a month, this is the second encounter of the snowy moonrise.Libellés : hk, paris, russia, self, sense |
| posted by zirhc @ 21:51 |
|
|
|
| mardi, février 13 |
| Make clouds...(13/2) |
 
Human makes clouds. Twisting from the below, we have our clouds on the sky. The skyscape has no limit, and in the coldness nature of gloomy sphere, people have their way out to manifest the making of clouds. These clouds are light and fragile. They are deflected, and they resemble the nature of human. Human nature.Libellés : energy, moscow, nature, russia |
| posted by zirhc @ 05:34 |
|
|
|
| lundi, février 12 |
| харчо...(12/2) |
The pick of the journey. A spicy taste with a delicious feeling for a cold winter. I went back to the same restaurant to try the second time for this soup.Libellés : moscow, russia, taste, voyage |
| posted by zirhc @ 03:56 |
|
|
|
| dimanche, février 11 |
| Dostoevsky...(11/2) |
  
Fyodor Dostoevsky is such a name to me. When people ask for my favourite writer, it would mostly be him. The first taste of the note from the underground over a decade ago was still a big bang to me. The unique style of touch to the writing paper offers a prelude to the wave of existentialism in the 20th century. On my first воскресеье in Moscow, I spent 3.5 hours paying a pilgrimage journey to visit his residence during childhood time. When I asked my Russian friends, they agree that Dostoevsky is one of the greatest writers in Russian literature, and the house a.k.a. museum of Dostoevsky is not located too far away from the city centre, but there are hardly any indicative signage on the road to direct the way of visitors to the place, and my morning was spent to get familiar with the district where Dostoevsky was nurtured during his youth. The house was used to be a part of the hospital buildings which was granted to his father to reside and to facilitate his work at the hospital. The area was dwelled with poor people and Dostoevsky was given to encounter different kinds of people and patients close to his house during the time of residence. The house is converted into a small museum since the late 80’s. It contains basically a replication of the home of the Dostoevsky family without much collection of his works or other materials of the life of the writer. There are three rooms in the museum, each showcasing the tiny moment of the childhood of the writer and his family. It was the place where Dostoevsky was told the story of Alyosha Popovich, Derzhavin, Zhukovsky and Karamzin. Inside the living room, I imagined, while the museum presenters was trying her best to explain the every furniture of the room to a small group of five kids. But the impatience of the group was to say that it was yet understandable the misery of the world. They kept on touching the cupboard or filming the paintings. It was a vital green world under the snowing winter.
Without many pedestrians on the road, the street is called Dostoevsky Street.Libellés : dostoevsky, moscow, musee, russia |
| posted by zirhc @ 02:13 |
|
|
|
| samedi, février 10 |
| The unexpected return...(10/2) |
  
The 19th century Russian Arts Exhibition in Orsay in 2005 was an excellent display of Russia art to me. The style and coldness touch was a side view of how the Russian culture had been during the 18th and 19th century. Since then, I was trying to record some post-visit notes after the exhibition. Priority takes over another priority and it was a surprise that I saw again quite some of the drawing this weekend at the Tretyakov Gallery that have been shown at Orsay. The Tretyakov Gallery has a collection of numerous representative drawings of Russian arts during the era, and works of famous artists like Levitsky, Perov, Kramskoy, Yaroshenko, Repin and Serikov are kept in the Gallery. Basic and subtle design of the Gallery, the display and presentation of the works are neat and proper. The more I walked in the gallery, the more I found the brightness of the collection. Some must-see works include «ночъ на днепре» by Kuinji, «лунная ночъ» by Kramskoy, «всюду жиэнъ» by Yaroshenko, «апофеоэ войны» by Vereshchagin, «boyarynja morozova» by Servikov, «a religious procession in kursk gubernyia» by Repin etc. Seeing Repin’s «не ждали» was truly like the unexpected return of the lost-and-found paintings in my mind.
Perhaps the collection compiles mainly work of no more than 300 years, or perhaps the preserved technique of the drawing is brilliantly carried out. Some paintings are still so fresh and intimate to the visitors. The nature of adverse environment and cold weather in Russia offers a broader view of the artists to devote into landscapes of coolness and natural occurrence of things around the people. This in fact engraves a unique thickness of the Russian paintings when compared to other European paintings of the same era. Facial expression is depicted in every portrait in the Gallery. The Russian works were dense in the sensation on faces and visual. Among hundreds of portrait, I found the original portrait of Dostoevsky painted by Periv in 1872.
The Tretyakov Gallery publishes a quarterly magazine named «галерея» which is also a weighted art journal.Libellés : moscow, peinture, perov, repin, russia, serikov, tretyakov |
| posted by zirhc @ 02:59 |
|
|
|
| mercredi, février 7 |
| Ride Moscow...(6/2) |
 
The taxi system is a symbol of free economy. Flick your arm and you get one on the street. Negotiation, trust and exchange, these are the elements of basic barter world. Distance is measured in a dimension of buoying currency. This is a way to worship the market world. Large number of outside population flocks to the satellite road system in Moscow city to offer helping hand, in exchange of a motivation to continue the drive. In the ring-shaped roadwork system, what drivers and passengers share would be the blurred lights from the façade of the new rise buildings and street lights. Symphony of the current state of planned economy.Libellés : biz, moscow, russia, voiture, voyage |
| posted by zirhc @ 06:55 |
|
|
|
| lundi, février 5 |
| Cold & white...(5/2) |
The sky of Moscow in winter is grey. A day struggles between black and white, dark and bright, but it never achieves. The pureness seems to turn upside down. The ground is simply whitened by the accumulation of snowdrops. The buildings are flat and square, and the snow weighs on a burdened level of tolerance. People walk on the floating ground. They remain calm, a stringent facial expression, and winter extends its limit to an endless direction. Puzzling, the only indication is the reddish digital display of the degree of coldness on a cold wall of old building along the road. This is psychological therapy to warm up the heart of the pedestrian. Winter is yet over.Libellés : colour, moscow, nature, russia, self, voyage |
| posted by zirhc @ 06:01 |
|
|
|
| dimanche, février 4 |
| Moscow...(4/2) |
It is my European style of insomnia that awakes me from the overdosed application of nothing and waiting. There are always the good and the bad. Within a short while, I am having a long displacement again. Moscow is a distant city to me. Not only do I have no idea about the life and condition in the city, but it is also the adverse weather that covers up the unknown place in a Zen colour of black and white – a blackening sky and a whitening depth of further downwards. The dislocation of the physical existence from city to city slows down the inborn response to the outside stimulus. Dreams come quite late recently. My tonight dream will only come tomorrow night and with a discrepancy between the current status of consciousness and the release of dreamy screen of colours and space produce a sort of hollowing effect to myself. This is abstractly true, and at least I do feel the effect of delay with my eyes shut. I walk in advance now.
Traffic within Moscow is, as said, very congested. The expectation of life span on earth is reflected on the nothingness inside the heated cubicle of the moving machines. In a day, 4.5 hours were spent in a car. The glass next to the insulated body was the heaven of the condensing particles. Reflection, the meaning of life, and the outside light of speeding diffusion, the still glass got painted in a miracle spectrum of moving microcosms. Moscow is a metropolitan, and to my first impression, it is coolly ideal for communism. The building and the infrastructure of the city simply match perfectly with the communist. All of them are cold and prism. The indifferent motion of the snowing scene outside the Kremlin area is another gorgeous painting of the spotless projection. I like it in its way of black and white.Lost in translation, a common terminology to describe the contrast of a willingness to understand and communicate. Having an insulated body of borderless mind, I think individually, and perhaps this is a reason to explain my ‘wake up feeling good’ sensation. This is a self-centred meditation channel, free of charge.Libellés : moscow, nature, russia, self, voyage |
| posted by zirhc @ 15:59 |
|
|
|
|
| Aeroflot solaris...(4/2) |
 
Simply like traveling with time, and the sharp colour of red and blue produced a false impression of a spacecraft. In dream or reality…this was not to differentiate. It was like a slow motion, or a fragmented dramatic series with the set of Tarkovski’s Solaris. It was an artificial intermission to me, and I had a stage to close my eyes and terminate the terminated journey, be it completed or not, a long sigh. I was transmitted like one of the particle to an untracked state of vibration before calmness.Libellés : moscow, russia, tarkovski, voyage |
| posted by zirhc @ 02:54 |
|
|
|
| vendredi, février 2 |
| Space...(2/2) |
Staying in the cubicle, size does not matter. I thought Hong Kong would be confined to a limited space due to its physical nature, but my vision varies. The perspective on scale and size is different from that I had when I was having the CNY in Hong Kong last year. Again, it proves to be a matter of vision and sensation. Widening visionary frame has a moderate development curve. It tends to be fiercely enlarged after a shocking stimulus, but then, it grows in a more subtle and dense capacity into a transformed nature of pictorial surface. I recalled the irrational criticism. People leaving Hong Kong have a flush of what Hong Kong means to them. Identity. When you are detached from the common world where you are used to be in, you are like breaking into the immune system. You look for an attachment. You query the medium of catalyst. Sooner would it reach the end when the latter passes by and goes. Modern philosophy of the city.Libellés : hk, self, space |
| posted by zirhc @ 02:29 |
|
|
|
|
|
