To be sure, there is a clear-cut distinction between the undergraduate and post-graduate(or AmE: graduate) education. giant Inflatable Castle Of what use is a college training ? William James once put forward an interesting answer in his article " The social value of the college-bred".That is to "help you to know a good man when you see him".
What talk do we commonly hear about the contrast between college eduaction and the education which business or techical or professional schools confer? The college education is called higher because it is supposed to be so general and so disinterested. At the "schools" you get a relatively narrow pratice skill, you are told, whereas, the "college" gives you the more liberal culture, the broader outlook, the historical perspective, the philosophic atmosphere, or something which phrases of that sort try to express. ( This paragraph is taken from William James''''''''s artice above)
In reality, the postgraduates are not students . Masters and doctors are junior and senior research fellows in a sense, respectively. The goal of postgraduate education is to train you to be an inquisitive and thoughtful and qualified researcher. Though I am not satisfied with our postgraduate eduaction program. Many postgraduates candidate take it for granted that post-graduate diploma is more valuabe and it will help them to find a better job. The most important task for post-graduate is to make yourself a qualifed quasi-scientist.
Well, maybe taking the postgraduate examinations is a kind of fashion. But in my opinion, don''t take them just because they are fashionable. We should know clearly why we decide to or have to take these examinations; such as we need to strengthen our knowledge or we need to get promoted.
To me, postgraduate study is kind of boring thing and I have no plan for postgraduate study right now so I won''t take these examinations in the near future. But if necessary I will. BTW, I hate all kinds of examinations. I don''t like to take them unless I have to!
2009年12月20日星期日
On University Students’ Pressure in Finding Jobs
About a decade ago, university students could find satisfactory and enviable jobs after their graduation. But now, Inflatable Tent for sale things are different. Today's university students usually have much pressure in finding fairly good jobs. They always say disappointedly that graduation means joblessness. Why nowadays university students have so much pressure in finding jobs?
In my opinion, this kind of pressure is mainly caused by three reasons. Firstly, the government is enrolling more and more university students year by year. And the growth of the students' number has surpassed that of the need of the society. So, when so many students graduate at a time, the chance of finding jobs becomes tiny. Secondly, today's university students, most of them are the "only-child", who are more mentally frail. Since they are indulged greatly at home and haven't been trained to do things on their own, once it is their turn to go out of the campus and find jobs by themselves and decide what kind of jobs to choose, they feel bewildered and don't know what to do. If their first try fails, they will be frustrated and think that it is really hard to find jobs. Thirdly, some university students are not qualified for good and challenging jobs. After entering the university, they don't study as hard as they did in high schools. They begin to sleep during the class or even be absent for classes. Some are addicted to computer games or Jin Yong's novels, or step into the two-person-world too early. Because these things have taken up so much of their time and energy, their study is neglected. After four years of university life, they haven't gained the knowledge those fairly good jobs or certain positions require.
In my opinion, this kind of pressure is mainly caused by three reasons. Firstly, the government is enrolling more and more university students year by year. And the growth of the students' number has surpassed that of the need of the society. So, when so many students graduate at a time, the chance of finding jobs becomes tiny. Secondly, today's university students, most of them are the "only-child", who are more mentally frail. Since they are indulged greatly at home and haven't been trained to do things on their own, once it is their turn to go out of the campus and find jobs by themselves and decide what kind of jobs to choose, they feel bewildered and don't know what to do. If their first try fails, they will be frustrated and think that it is really hard to find jobs. Thirdly, some university students are not qualified for good and challenging jobs. After entering the university, they don't study as hard as they did in high schools. They begin to sleep during the class or even be absent for classes. Some are addicted to computer games or Jin Yong's novels, or step into the two-person-world too early. Because these things have taken up so much of their time and energy, their study is neglected. After four years of university life, they haven't gained the knowledge those fairly good jobs or certain positions require.
Shaping your life and the future
A decade or two makes tremendous difference in one’s life. How different was the life at the eighties from the life at the nineties, cheap Inflatable Castle or the life today at the turn of 21st century? How many years can one work after graduation for one’s country? In most cases, we are supposed to work for over 30 years after graduation for our country until retirement-------just three decades of working time and accomplishment. So there is no time to lose for anyone to make good plans and set up good goals for this short span of life accomplishment. Ten years ago, my daughter was a freshman majoring in the English language while I was a teacher of English in one university. Today, my daughter has finished her master course of Management of Information System and worked as a programmer in an American city. I have been retired for five years. In the twenty year’s time ,what great changes also have taken place in China and in my hometown Shanghai !
I always admire those Chinese young men and women who grew up, studied in college or worked already in the eighties and nineties,up to now, for they are much blessed by China’s policy of opening to the outside world. More than their parents’ generation, they can exercise control over how they use their time and energy; they are faced with more opportunities to hew out a bright future for themselves. The younger generations have lots of choices to make in deciding what kind of job they feel like doing; they are allowed to flit from one post to another or change their major or school as they wish. They even can further their education abroad. As was the system in my generation, we were dentined to do the same job, teacher or worker, right after graduation, the rest of our life until retirement. We were unable to choose the institution or factory where we worked. Once we were assigned to work in a certain work unit, it was likely we would stay there forever. We had no other way out to pursue personal welfare. How lucky and fortunate the young generations are ! They should treasure the golden age and make best use of their time and energy not only to fulfil their personal needs but also make contributions to their communities and country.
Do not let golden opportunities slip through your fingers. Life is short and precious,and human existence is fragile. The swiftness with which time flies reminds us that none of us has an infinite amount of time to achieve what one desires in life. When we see the people we love and admire pass away one by one-----family members, friends, colleagues and neighbors, we sadly realize how fragile human lives are. So do what you long for if conditions are ripe,because you have only one life to use.
Now you are entitled to shape your life and the future. You’d better seize every minute, making great efforts for the realization of your goals that you’ve set for yourslves within one decade or two decades’s time. What have you decided to do from now on ? Are you clear of your priorities? What haven’t you committed yourself to that is essential to shaping your future?
I always admire those Chinese young men and women who grew up, studied in college or worked already in the eighties and nineties,up to now, for they are much blessed by China’s policy of opening to the outside world. More than their parents’ generation, they can exercise control over how they use their time and energy; they are faced with more opportunities to hew out a bright future for themselves. The younger generations have lots of choices to make in deciding what kind of job they feel like doing; they are allowed to flit from one post to another or change their major or school as they wish. They even can further their education abroad. As was the system in my generation, we were dentined to do the same job, teacher or worker, right after graduation, the rest of our life until retirement. We were unable to choose the institution or factory where we worked. Once we were assigned to work in a certain work unit, it was likely we would stay there forever. We had no other way out to pursue personal welfare. How lucky and fortunate the young generations are ! They should treasure the golden age and make best use of their time and energy not only to fulfil their personal needs but also make contributions to their communities and country.
Do not let golden opportunities slip through your fingers. Life is short and precious,and human existence is fragile. The swiftness with which time flies reminds us that none of us has an infinite amount of time to achieve what one desires in life. When we see the people we love and admire pass away one by one-----family members, friends, colleagues and neighbors, we sadly realize how fragile human lives are. So do what you long for if conditions are ripe,because you have only one life to use.
Now you are entitled to shape your life and the future. You’d better seize every minute, making great efforts for the realization of your goals that you’ve set for yourslves within one decade or two decades’s time. What have you decided to do from now on ? Are you clear of your priorities? What haven’t you committed yourself to that is essential to shaping your future?
2009年12月18日星期五
The Angel In My House
My sister was watching me sympathetically as I burst into tears for what annoyed me. Holding my hand firmly in hers, Inflatable Christmas house she sat by my side without uttering a word.
Willingly or not, I had been her sister for 13 years since I was 7 years old. Due to her arrival, I then childishly thought that I was thrown into a world of darkness, anger, frustration and self-pity. Once a lovely girl, I felt condemned by this fate to becoming a desolated burden ---- all the adults around complimented the newly-born, charming creature while neglecting my presence.
A cloud of jealousy hung over my once peaceful heart. I muddled through each day by sharing all I had previously had enjoyed alone. And all I had to cling to was to hit her and shout at her on our parents’ back.
My sister was so scared of me that each time when she was left alone with me, I could notice her trembling----and that pleased me even for years. But, I also knew that she respected me from the bottom of her heart----though I never admitted that until that day when I participated the College Entrance Examination. My parents as well as my sister all came to bolster morale for me outside the school gate. I was thoroughly prepared. I passed the line that separated the examinees and the supporters, and walked on nearly 100 meters, I suddenly heard my sister’s voice:
“Your pen-box! Sister, you forget your pen-box!”
Turning back, I saw my sister’s little body rushing past the security guards all the way towards me.
When she run up to me, what she heard was my sneer: “Pen-box are not allowed. I’ve picked out the pens.”
Then she answered breathlessly: “Oh!” daring not to look into my eyes.
Seeing my sister walk out with a disappointing back, I suddenly realized that she was always waiting for an opportunity to do something for me.
Later, when I went to university in Beijing, I tasted the ache of loneliness. Furthermore, two shocks in quick succession allowed me to learn that my sister’s really means a great deal to me.
The first thing was that, as Mother told me, after my leaving, my sister insisted on not moving any of my things. She even put my towel besides hers. She said, whenever she entered the bathroom, that would remind her of my smiles, my jokes, my being a patient listener.
Then came the second shock: I could not remember when I gave her a smile, when I ever told her jokes. As for “a patient listener”, all that came to my mind was that my sister kept telling some trivial incidents in her school day, but I put none of them into my heart, only minding my own business. Yet as long as I felt sad, it was my sister who would sit by my side, watching over me.
This summer, my father rented a house by the Nanli Lake and took us all there for several weeks. This time, it was me who was expected to catch the opportunity to push our relationship further, and to let her know how I really felt.
The first morning, we went fishing. We stared silently at the tips of our rods, at the dragonflies that came and went. I lowered the tip of mine into water, tentatively, dislodging the dragonfly. I looked at my sister, who was silently imitating me, and yet there was even no dragonfly on her rod! Then I intentionally let her hold my rod, her eyes watching. For a while, I could experience her state of mind---she was pleasantly surprised by my behavior showing acceptance.
Being wild with joy, she finally caught two Yuenan fish, hauling them in briskly and put them in the net skillfully.
Then I had to accept that, as the time went by, my sister had grown up much more independent, being able to manage many things all by herself. But still she followed me step by step, imitated whatever I did, convinced everyone of her classmates that I was the best sister in the world. I knew that she tried her best to let me know that: she loved me.
Willingly or not, I had been her sister for 13 years since I was 7 years old. Due to her arrival, I then childishly thought that I was thrown into a world of darkness, anger, frustration and self-pity. Once a lovely girl, I felt condemned by this fate to becoming a desolated burden ---- all the adults around complimented the newly-born, charming creature while neglecting my presence.
A cloud of jealousy hung over my once peaceful heart. I muddled through each day by sharing all I had previously had enjoyed alone. And all I had to cling to was to hit her and shout at her on our parents’ back.
My sister was so scared of me that each time when she was left alone with me, I could notice her trembling----and that pleased me even for years. But, I also knew that she respected me from the bottom of her heart----though I never admitted that until that day when I participated the College Entrance Examination. My parents as well as my sister all came to bolster morale for me outside the school gate. I was thoroughly prepared. I passed the line that separated the examinees and the supporters, and walked on nearly 100 meters, I suddenly heard my sister’s voice:
“Your pen-box! Sister, you forget your pen-box!”
Turning back, I saw my sister’s little body rushing past the security guards all the way towards me.
When she run up to me, what she heard was my sneer: “Pen-box are not allowed. I’ve picked out the pens.”
Then she answered breathlessly: “Oh!” daring not to look into my eyes.
Seeing my sister walk out with a disappointing back, I suddenly realized that she was always waiting for an opportunity to do something for me.
Later, when I went to university in Beijing, I tasted the ache of loneliness. Furthermore, two shocks in quick succession allowed me to learn that my sister’s really means a great deal to me.
The first thing was that, as Mother told me, after my leaving, my sister insisted on not moving any of my things. She even put my towel besides hers. She said, whenever she entered the bathroom, that would remind her of my smiles, my jokes, my being a patient listener.
Then came the second shock: I could not remember when I gave her a smile, when I ever told her jokes. As for “a patient listener”, all that came to my mind was that my sister kept telling some trivial incidents in her school day, but I put none of them into my heart, only minding my own business. Yet as long as I felt sad, it was my sister who would sit by my side, watching over me.
This summer, my father rented a house by the Nanli Lake and took us all there for several weeks. This time, it was me who was expected to catch the opportunity to push our relationship further, and to let her know how I really felt.
The first morning, we went fishing. We stared silently at the tips of our rods, at the dragonflies that came and went. I lowered the tip of mine into water, tentatively, dislodging the dragonfly. I looked at my sister, who was silently imitating me, and yet there was even no dragonfly on her rod! Then I intentionally let her hold my rod, her eyes watching. For a while, I could experience her state of mind---she was pleasantly surprised by my behavior showing acceptance.
Being wild with joy, she finally caught two Yuenan fish, hauling them in briskly and put them in the net skillfully.
Then I had to accept that, as the time went by, my sister had grown up much more independent, being able to manage many things all by herself. But still she followed me step by step, imitated whatever I did, convinced everyone of her classmates that I was the best sister in the world. I knew that she tried her best to let me know that: she loved me.
Books are the Most Precious Fortune
When my tenth birthday was coming up, I was happy imaging what kind of present my father would give me. To my surprise, yard Inflatable Games Father gave me a set of books, which I was very glad to accept. He saw what I was thinking and said kindly: "Dear, remember, books are the most precious fortune in the world, I am sure that once you finish reading the first book, you will be anxious to read the second one, then the third, the forth…" According to my father's words, I have to give reading a try. And things really happened as he expected. Books indeed exerted a strong influence on me. From then on, I stepped into a new and wonderful world that books spread open for me.
Whether a man reads history books or mathematical books, reads them in detail or just skims them, if he cares about reading at all, he will appreciating the pleasure of books. Experience tells me that what composes the joys of reading lies in the process of finding a good book, enjoying it, and learning from it.
In the first place, you will be feeling excited when you find a good book which is suitable for yourself. Reading is something of a paradox. One thinks that books are always meaningful. Yet the fact is that many of them are useless in some sense. Particularly, pornographic books describe violence, superstition, and sex. People who are taken up by such books might be misled and dispirited. Therefore, choosing an appropriate book not only improves your ability to discriminate and leads you to read effectively, but also gives you the fulfillment of knowing a good book.
Secondly, reading would offer inexhaustible mental nutrition. Good books teach us and help us to do well. They are our real companions. They are both instructive and inspiring. Through reading, the beauties of nature, the miracles of art, the spectacles of architecture, and the marvels of engineering are all opened to our wonder and appreciation. Moreover, it really builds up a full comprehension of love, hatred, happiness and sorrows in our heart. We are able to experience various kinds of lives---what more is there to desire than that?
Thirdly, it is fruitful for us to learn from the book after reading it. Books are our friends; they take us to all the countries in the world; they tell us stories of all ages; they teach us the truth. With reading, we can learn innumerable things we do not know, be aware of what has happened in the past as well as what is going to happen in the future, and solve the urgent problems that beset us. Gradually, we come to know how to be a real person and how to observe the world.
Whether a man reads history books or mathematical books, reads them in detail or just skims them, if he cares about reading at all, he will appreciating the pleasure of books. Experience tells me that what composes the joys of reading lies in the process of finding a good book, enjoying it, and learning from it.
In the first place, you will be feeling excited when you find a good book which is suitable for yourself. Reading is something of a paradox. One thinks that books are always meaningful. Yet the fact is that many of them are useless in some sense. Particularly, pornographic books describe violence, superstition, and sex. People who are taken up by such books might be misled and dispirited. Therefore, choosing an appropriate book not only improves your ability to discriminate and leads you to read effectively, but also gives you the fulfillment of knowing a good book.
Secondly, reading would offer inexhaustible mental nutrition. Good books teach us and help us to do well. They are our real companions. They are both instructive and inspiring. Through reading, the beauties of nature, the miracles of art, the spectacles of architecture, and the marvels of engineering are all opened to our wonder and appreciation. Moreover, it really builds up a full comprehension of love, hatred, happiness and sorrows in our heart. We are able to experience various kinds of lives---what more is there to desire than that?
Thirdly, it is fruitful for us to learn from the book after reading it. Books are our friends; they take us to all the countries in the world; they tell us stories of all ages; they teach us the truth. With reading, we can learn innumerable things we do not know, be aware of what has happened in the past as well as what is going to happen in the future, and solve the urgent problems that beset us. Gradually, we come to know how to be a real person and how to observe the world.
2009年12月17日星期四
Connection
It is snowing outside. I am a little depressed because of the chilly winter. Looking through the window I can see a mother and her daughter making a snowman. I am deeply moved by their laugh and happiness. It reminds me of my mother. outdoor Inflatable Arch What is my mother doing now? Is she missing her youngest daughter who lives far away from her? At this moment I miss my mum so much that I remember an unforgettable experience happened years ago. Does she still remember it?
When I was ten, there was not VCD or DVD in my village, so we kids were overjoyed when there would be a movie showed for the whole village. A movie was more attractive than candies and new clothes. Whenever and wherever it showed, I always made every effort to persuade my mum to let me go with my fellows. So when I knew there would be a wonderful movie at that snowing night, actively but unusually, I cleaned the dinning table. Then I begged my mum to let me go. She could not stop me. I can not remember what that movie was about but I exactly remember my strong will to watch it. She asked me to put on her woolen scarf and gloves. Wearing like a penguin, I went to watch the movie. After the movie, my neighbor’s girl suggested that we continue to watch TV in her house. As kids, we always loved doing things together, even having meals. So I agreed without hesitate. I took it for granted that my mum knew where l went and I thought she would not worry about me, therefore I didn’t tell her. I will never forget the moment when I saw my mum in our yard calling my name, with tears on her face. She has looked for me from door to door of every friend of mine. She has run in the snow for nearly two hours, looking for her selfish daughter. Smiling, with tears she looked like a kid when she saw me. She hugged me tightly without blame. From then on, I believe there is a connection between mother and her kids. For that snowing night I felt I really heard my mother’s call.
When I was ten, there was not VCD or DVD in my village, so we kids were overjoyed when there would be a movie showed for the whole village. A movie was more attractive than candies and new clothes. Whenever and wherever it showed, I always made every effort to persuade my mum to let me go with my fellows. So when I knew there would be a wonderful movie at that snowing night, actively but unusually, I cleaned the dinning table. Then I begged my mum to let me go. She could not stop me. I can not remember what that movie was about but I exactly remember my strong will to watch it. She asked me to put on her woolen scarf and gloves. Wearing like a penguin, I went to watch the movie. After the movie, my neighbor’s girl suggested that we continue to watch TV in her house. As kids, we always loved doing things together, even having meals. So I agreed without hesitate. I took it for granted that my mum knew where l went and I thought she would not worry about me, therefore I didn’t tell her. I will never forget the moment when I saw my mum in our yard calling my name, with tears on her face. She has looked for me from door to door of every friend of mine. She has run in the snow for nearly two hours, looking for her selfish daughter. Smiling, with tears she looked like a kid when she saw me. She hugged me tightly without blame. From then on, I believe there is a connection between mother and her kids. For that snowing night I felt I really heard my mother’s call.
Hour in the sun
I was rich, if not in money, in sunny hours and summer days.
Henry David Thoreau
When Thoreau wrote that line, sale Inflatable Slide he was thinking of the Walden Pond he knew as a boy.
Walking along the memory lane, I cannot help thinking of the basketball gym where I used to have great fun with my lovely friends. We went there when dawn broke, and then we played basketball in the hot sun, always killing the whole morning. Crazy, isn’t it? At that time,basketball,undoubtedly, became a friend of ours, or even a part of my life. Something deserves to belong to one sometime in life. Because of basketball, stupid but crazy guys like us, got together and became best friends than we could ever be in this life.
Time swallows many things: the gym is replaced by factories, and in the dump sleep quietly all parts of the basketball shelves. What matters most is that there will never be the crazy boys fooling around and teasing with basketball. Time flies--now we’re walking on a brand new life journey, separating from each other for our own puzzling future. It keeps reminding me of a saying in American TV series One Tree Hill—people always leave. I should admit that nothing can really accompany you forever in real life. In the end, they have to go no matter how you feel. Just as Emerson said, heartily known, when half gods go, the gods arrive.
Anyway, I will cherish those precious moments at the bottom of my heart. When alone or in a peaceful mind, they will always touch my heart and remind me of the unforgettable scenes. They all are walking on their own life: friendship flourishes in the beautiful memories. I will be very glad to claim that basketball still keeps me company all the time. And I believe he will always be with me and become a lifelong friend seeing me through difficulties and setbacks and witnessing my glorious moments. Playing basketball makes me feel good and learn how to appreciate my life--although I am not with my family all the year. I can treat it as home away from home.
Basketball has become a touchstone of my life against bad things especially when I lean how to protect myself after series of wounds from it. Why do you choose basketball, since you have been hurt because of it, asks my friend. Why? Words fail me. I can only say you cannot help loving a thing without regretting, once it becomes part of you. Just put it in an easy way, I just love this game and I enjoy it!
Yeah, no need for me to add extra explanations or reasons for my love of something. To some degree, basketball represents my young days, or just like a band in which I save my most valuable treasuries.
Henry David Thoreau
When Thoreau wrote that line, sale Inflatable Slide he was thinking of the Walden Pond he knew as a boy.
Walking along the memory lane, I cannot help thinking of the basketball gym where I used to have great fun with my lovely friends. We went there when dawn broke, and then we played basketball in the hot sun, always killing the whole morning. Crazy, isn’t it? At that time,basketball,undoubtedly, became a friend of ours, or even a part of my life. Something deserves to belong to one sometime in life. Because of basketball, stupid but crazy guys like us, got together and became best friends than we could ever be in this life.
Time swallows many things: the gym is replaced by factories, and in the dump sleep quietly all parts of the basketball shelves. What matters most is that there will never be the crazy boys fooling around and teasing with basketball. Time flies--now we’re walking on a brand new life journey, separating from each other for our own puzzling future. It keeps reminding me of a saying in American TV series One Tree Hill—people always leave. I should admit that nothing can really accompany you forever in real life. In the end, they have to go no matter how you feel. Just as Emerson said, heartily known, when half gods go, the gods arrive.
Anyway, I will cherish those precious moments at the bottom of my heart. When alone or in a peaceful mind, they will always touch my heart and remind me of the unforgettable scenes. They all are walking on their own life: friendship flourishes in the beautiful memories. I will be very glad to claim that basketball still keeps me company all the time. And I believe he will always be with me and become a lifelong friend seeing me through difficulties and setbacks and witnessing my glorious moments. Playing basketball makes me feel good and learn how to appreciate my life--although I am not with my family all the year. I can treat it as home away from home.
Basketball has become a touchstone of my life against bad things especially when I lean how to protect myself after series of wounds from it. Why do you choose basketball, since you have been hurt because of it, asks my friend. Why? Words fail me. I can only say you cannot help loving a thing without regretting, once it becomes part of you. Just put it in an easy way, I just love this game and I enjoy it!
Yeah, no need for me to add extra explanations or reasons for my love of something. To some degree, basketball represents my young days, or just like a band in which I save my most valuable treasuries.
2009年12月16日星期三
Sports are a kind of education
For many young people in my part of the world (suburban America), the first brush with organized athletics comes on a Saturday morning in early spring. The weather is getting warmer and the school year's end is imminent, and moms,house Inflatable Advertising sensing the approach of summer vacation and Too Much Free Time, pile us into the backs of minivans and drive us to our town's local sports and recreation center. In my hometown, Egg Harbor Township, New Jersey, kids converge each year on the EHT Youth Organization Building, a cinderblock shack in the middle of a handful of baseball and football fields. There lines are waited in, forms filled out, birth certificates examined and photocopied, health insurance waivers furnished and signed. At the end of the morning, kids are signed up for little-league baseball and an instant summer schedule of activities has been created. Then it's time to go to Burger King.
For parents seeking productive ways to occupy their children's time, summer sports leagues offer a convenient and time-tested outlet for overabundant energy. In my case that meant baseball. America's pastime: nine weeks of pitched fastballs and sore elbows, grounders up the middle, digging it out to first base, shagging flies in the outfield and swatting mosquitoes in the infield. Then, after six innings, back to Burger King.
A couple of weeks after the signups at the cinderblock shack, we kids would be rounded up into teams and coached in the fundamentals of pitching, catching, hitting, and running bases. We'd be supplied with color-coded jerseys and mesh baseball caps, and then we would play a season's worth of games against one another. Playoffs would be held and champions crowned. At the end of the season an all-star team of the league's best players would be assembled to play against the best teams from neighboring towns.
Back and forth across the country this system repeats itself from town to town and sport to sport with little variation. Some leagues have storied pasts: baseball's Little League or football's Pop Warner League. Some are newer. In cities it is often the Policemen's Benevolent Association or the YMCA that assumes the sponsorship role. Always, though, there is the underlying idea that organized sport is a valuable and productive use of a young person's time. Sports, in short, are a kind of education, teaching important life skills that can't be learned in school.
For parents seeking productive ways to occupy their children's time, summer sports leagues offer a convenient and time-tested outlet for overabundant energy. In my case that meant baseball. America's pastime: nine weeks of pitched fastballs and sore elbows, grounders up the middle, digging it out to first base, shagging flies in the outfield and swatting mosquitoes in the infield. Then, after six innings, back to Burger King.
A couple of weeks after the signups at the cinderblock shack, we kids would be rounded up into teams and coached in the fundamentals of pitching, catching, hitting, and running bases. We'd be supplied with color-coded jerseys and mesh baseball caps, and then we would play a season's worth of games against one another. Playoffs would be held and champions crowned. At the end of the season an all-star team of the league's best players would be assembled to play against the best teams from neighboring towns.
Back and forth across the country this system repeats itself from town to town and sport to sport with little variation. Some leagues have storied pasts: baseball's Little League or football's Pop Warner League. Some are newer. In cities it is often the Policemen's Benevolent Association or the YMCA that assumes the sponsorship role. Always, though, there is the underlying idea that organized sport is a valuable and productive use of a young person's time. Sports, in short, are a kind of education, teaching important life skills that can't be learned in school.
The Dreaded 3.8 Paragraph
One thing that Mrs.Inflatable Toys house Abrams knew how to teach, was writing. She could see the problems you have in your writing and had a solution to each. A factor that helped her be able to identify with the writing of her students was that she had a deep understanding of each and every one of them. Mrs. Abrams knew how each student liked to write and what their tendencies were. If a student were prone to writing overdone, run on, off topic sentences, Mrs. Abrams would be the first one to tell that student. This ability to spot problems in writing wasn't something that she just had; it came from her knowledge of the personalities of each one of her students. She made the class feel as though they were the only students in the class. It felt like she put all her attention on you and you alone.
Before comingsintosthe 8th grade, writing was not something that I did. Writing was one of those far away art forms that you would admire, but never did yourself. The closest comparison would have to be ice sculpting. The end result of an ice sculpture looks pretty cool, but you could never picture yourself doing it. That was how I felt about writing. I would do it when I had to, but I realized that I really didn't like it. That's not to say that I wasn't any good at it. In years past, I noticed one thing. Whenever we did write, I would read the things that other students were writing and my writing would be light years ahead of what they were doing. It would feel like reading a Doctor Seuss book whenever we read each other's papers (Doctor Seuss is the multi-award winning writer who wrote the books, "The Cat in the Hat" and "Green Eggs and Ham". All of his books are directed towards very young kids who are starting to read or whose parents read to them. Almost every kid who grew up in America has read a Doctor Seuss book.) Despite this, I still felt that I really didn't like to write and there was no future in it. It's kind of ironic seeing how I'm writing a book right now, but believe me, three years ago, this was the last thing I wanted to do.
The second day in Mrs. Abrams' class, we were introduced to something I had heard of many times before, the 3.8 paragraph. This is the model of writing that all the elementary and junior high teachers wanted you to follow. It shows you how to write about a topic using 3 main ideas in 8 paragraphs, hence 3.8 paragraph. The paragraph was comprised of one paragraph for the introduction, one for the conclusion, and two for each main idea. We had seen this for the last 3 years. By now, it was old news. The teachers before Mrs. Abrams all wanted us to write out papers in this form, but they never enforced it. I easily passed by writing a beautifully descriptive, thoughtful, and articulate paper without even following the 3.8 format and still get a one hundred percent. 3.8 paragraphs were the bane of my writing techniques.
I got a little surprise when I tried this same stunt in Mrs. Abrams' class. For about the entire first quarter of the year, I had trouble with the writing assignments in her class. I would pump out some papers that I thought were the best I had ever written and wind up with 85's on them. I had no idea why. It didn't matter what the topic was, I would write a paper, which I thought, was absolutely top notch and get it back with a big B on it. What made me even more frustrated was that others were getting A's consistently. Why? I read their papers, but their ideas and their language were horribly childish. The words and way they wrote astounded me, it was really like reading a third grade paper. Yet, they got better grades than I did!? I was absolutely confused by why my papers couldn't make the cut.
Before comingsintosthe 8th grade, writing was not something that I did. Writing was one of those far away art forms that you would admire, but never did yourself. The closest comparison would have to be ice sculpting. The end result of an ice sculpture looks pretty cool, but you could never picture yourself doing it. That was how I felt about writing. I would do it when I had to, but I realized that I really didn't like it. That's not to say that I wasn't any good at it. In years past, I noticed one thing. Whenever we did write, I would read the things that other students were writing and my writing would be light years ahead of what they were doing. It would feel like reading a Doctor Seuss book whenever we read each other's papers (Doctor Seuss is the multi-award winning writer who wrote the books, "The Cat in the Hat" and "Green Eggs and Ham". All of his books are directed towards very young kids who are starting to read or whose parents read to them. Almost every kid who grew up in America has read a Doctor Seuss book.) Despite this, I still felt that I really didn't like to write and there was no future in it. It's kind of ironic seeing how I'm writing a book right now, but believe me, three years ago, this was the last thing I wanted to do.
The second day in Mrs. Abrams' class, we were introduced to something I had heard of many times before, the 3.8 paragraph. This is the model of writing that all the elementary and junior high teachers wanted you to follow. It shows you how to write about a topic using 3 main ideas in 8 paragraphs, hence 3.8 paragraph. The paragraph was comprised of one paragraph for the introduction, one for the conclusion, and two for each main idea. We had seen this for the last 3 years. By now, it was old news. The teachers before Mrs. Abrams all wanted us to write out papers in this form, but they never enforced it. I easily passed by writing a beautifully descriptive, thoughtful, and articulate paper without even following the 3.8 format and still get a one hundred percent. 3.8 paragraphs were the bane of my writing techniques.
I got a little surprise when I tried this same stunt in Mrs. Abrams' class. For about the entire first quarter of the year, I had trouble with the writing assignments in her class. I would pump out some papers that I thought were the best I had ever written and wind up with 85's on them. I had no idea why. It didn't matter what the topic was, I would write a paper, which I thought, was absolutely top notch and get it back with a big B on it. What made me even more frustrated was that others were getting A's consistently. Why? I read their papers, but their ideas and their language were horribly childish. The words and way they wrote astounded me, it was really like reading a third grade paper. Yet, they got better grades than I did!? I was absolutely confused by why my papers couldn't make the cut.
2009年12月15日星期二
We Never Told Him He Couldnt Do It
My son Joey was born with club feet. The doctors assured us that with treatment he would be able to walk normally - but would never run very well. The first three years of his life were spent in surgery, casts and braces. By the time he was eight, adult Inflatable Arch you wouldn't know he had a problem when you saw him walk .
The children in our neighborhood ran around as most children do during play, and Joey would jump right in and run and play, too. We never told him that he probably wouldn't be able to run as well as the other children. So he didn't know.
In seventh grade he decided to go out for the cross-country team. Every day he trained with the team. He worked harder and ran more than any of the others - perhaps he sensed that the abilities that seemed to come naturally to so many others did not come naturally to him. Although the entire team runs, only the top seven runners have the potential to score points for the school. We didn't tell him he probably would never make the team, so he didn't know.
The children in our neighborhood ran around as most children do during play, and Joey would jump right in and run and play, too. We never told him that he probably wouldn't be able to run as well as the other children. So he didn't know.
In seventh grade he decided to go out for the cross-country team. Every day he trained with the team. He worked harder and ran more than any of the others - perhaps he sensed that the abilities that seemed to come naturally to so many others did not come naturally to him. Although the entire team runs, only the top seven runners have the potential to score points for the school. We didn't tell him he probably would never make the team, so he didn't know.
My Miraculous Family
I never considered myself unique, but people are constantly telling me, "you are a miracle." To me, I was just an ordinary cheap Inflatable Slide "guy" with realistic goals and big dreams. I was a 19-year-old student at the University of Texas and well on my way toward fulfilling my "big dream" of one day becoming an 1)orthopedic surgeon.
On the night of February 17, 1981 I was studying for an 2)Organic Chemistry test at the library with Sharon, my girlfriend of three years. Sharon had asked me to drive her back to her dormitory as it was getting quite late. We got into my car, not realizing that just getting into a car would never quite be the same for me again. I quickly noticed that my gas 3)gauge was registered on empty so I pulled into a nearby convenience store to buy $2.00 worth of gas. "I'll be back in two minutes," I yelled at Sharon as I closed the door. But instead, those two minutes changed my life forever.
Entering the convenience store was like entering the 4)twilight zone. On the outside I was a healthy, athletic, pre-med student, but on the inside I was just another statistic of a violent crime. I thought I was entering an empty store, but suddenly I realized it was not empty at all. Three robbers were in the process of committing a robbery and my entrance into the store caught them by surprise. One of the criminals immediately 5)shoved a .38 6)caliber handgun to my head, ordered me to the cooler, pushed me down on the floor, and pumped a bullet into the back of my head - execution style. He obviously thought I was dead because he did not shoot me again. The 7) trio of thieves finished robbing the store and left calmly.
Meanwhile, Sharon wondered why I had not returned. After seeing the three men leave the store she really began to worry as I was the last person she saw entering the store. She quickly went inside to look for me, but saw no one-only an almost empty cash register containing one check and several pennies. Quickly she ran down each aisle shouting, "Mike, Mike!"
Just then the 8) attendant appeared from the back of the store shouting, "Lady, get down on the floor. I've just been robbed and shot at!"
Sharon quickly dropped to the floor screaming, "Have you seen my boyfriend? He has 9)auburn hair." The man did not reply but went back to the cooler where he found me choking on my vomit. The attendant quickly cleaned my mouth and then called for the police and an ambulance.
Sharon was in shock. She was beginning to understand that I was hurt, but she could not begin to comprehend or imagine the severity of my injury.
When the police arrived they immediately called the 10)homicide division as they did not think I would survive and the 11)paramedic reported that she had never seen a person so severely wounded survive. At 1:30 a.m. my parents who lived in Houston, were awakened by a telephone call from Brackenridge Hospital advising them to come to Austin as soon as possible for they feared I would not make it through the night.
But I did make it through the night and early in the morning the 12)neurosurgeon decided to operate. However, he quickly informed my family and Sharon that my chances of surviving the surgery were only 40/60. If this were not bad enough, the neurosurgeon further shocked my family by telling them what life would be like for me if I 13)beat the odds and survived. He said I probably would never walk, talk, or be able to understand even simple commands.
My family was hoping and praying to hear even the slightest bit of encouragement from that doctor. Instead, his pessimistic words gave my family no reason to believe that I would ever again be a productive member of society. But once again I beat the odds and survived the three and a half hours of surgery.
Granted, I still could not talk, my entire right side was paralyzed and many people thought I could not understand, but at least I was stable. After one week in a private room the doctors felt I had improved enough to be transferred by jet ambulance to Del Oro 14)Rehabilitation Hospital in Houston.
My 15)hallucinations, coupled with my physical problems, made my 16)prognosis still very bleak. However, as time passed my mind began to clear and approximately six weeks later my right leg began to move ever so slightly. Within seven weeks my right arm slowly began to move and at eight weeks I uttered my first few words.
My speech was extremely difficult and slow in the beginning, but at least it was a beginning. I was starting to look forward to each new day to see how far I would progress. But just as I thought my life was finally looking brighter I was tested by the hospital europsychologist. She explained to me that judging from my test results she believed that I should not focus on returning to college but that it would be better to set more "realistic goals."
Upon hearing her evaluation I became furious for I thought, "Who is she to tell me what I can or cannot do. She does not even know me. I am a very determined and stubborn person!" I believe it was at that very moment that I decided I would somehow, someday return to college.
It took me a long time and a lot of hard work but I finally returned to the University of Texas in the fall of 1983 - a year and a half after almost dying. The next few years in Austin were very difficult for me, but I truly believe that in order to see beauty in life you have to experience some unpleasantness. Maybe I have experienced too much unpleasantness, but I believe in living each day to the fullest, and doing the very best I can.
And each new day was very busy and very full, for besides attending classes at the University I underwent therapy three to five days each week at Brackenridge Hospital. If this were not enough I flew to Houston every other weekend to work with Tom Williams, a trainer and executive who had worked for many colleges and professional teams and also had helped many injured athletes, such as Earl Campbell and Eric Dickerson. Through Tom I learned: "Nothing is impossible and never, never give up or quit."
Early, during my therapy, my father kept repeating to me one of his favorite sayings. I have repeated it almost every day since being hurt: "Mile by mile it's a trial; yard by yard it's hard; but inch by inch it's a cinch."
I thought of those words, and I thought of Tom, my family and Sharon who believed so strongly in me as I climbed the steps to receive my diploma from the Dean of Liberal Arts at the University of Texas on that bright sunny afternoon in June of 1986. Excitement and pride filled my heart as I heard the dean announce that I had graduated with "highest honors", been elected to Phi Beta Kappa, and been chosen as one of 12 Dean's Distinguished Graduates out of 1600 in the College of Liberal Arts.
The overwhelming emotions and feelings that I experienced at that very moment, when most of the audience gave me a standing 17)ovation, I felt would never again be matched in my life-not even when I graduated with a masters degree in social work and not even when I became employed full time at the Texas Pain and Stress Center. But I was wrong!
On May 24, 1987, I realized that nothing could ever match the joy I felt as Sharon and I were married. Sharon, my high school sweetheart of nine years, had always stood by me, through good and bad times. To me, Sharon is my miracle, my diamond in a world filled with problems, hurt, and pain. It was Sharon who dropped out of school when I was hurt so that she could constantly be at my side. She never wavered or gave up on me.
It was her faith and love that pulled me through so many dark days. While other nineteen year old girls were going to parties and enjoying life, Sharon devoted her life to my recovery. That, to me, is the true definition of love.
On the night of February 17, 1981 I was studying for an 2)Organic Chemistry test at the library with Sharon, my girlfriend of three years. Sharon had asked me to drive her back to her dormitory as it was getting quite late. We got into my car, not realizing that just getting into a car would never quite be the same for me again. I quickly noticed that my gas 3)gauge was registered on empty so I pulled into a nearby convenience store to buy $2.00 worth of gas. "I'll be back in two minutes," I yelled at Sharon as I closed the door. But instead, those two minutes changed my life forever.
Entering the convenience store was like entering the 4)twilight zone. On the outside I was a healthy, athletic, pre-med student, but on the inside I was just another statistic of a violent crime. I thought I was entering an empty store, but suddenly I realized it was not empty at all. Three robbers were in the process of committing a robbery and my entrance into the store caught them by surprise. One of the criminals immediately 5)shoved a .38 6)caliber handgun to my head, ordered me to the cooler, pushed me down on the floor, and pumped a bullet into the back of my head - execution style. He obviously thought I was dead because he did not shoot me again. The 7) trio of thieves finished robbing the store and left calmly.
Meanwhile, Sharon wondered why I had not returned. After seeing the three men leave the store she really began to worry as I was the last person she saw entering the store. She quickly went inside to look for me, but saw no one-only an almost empty cash register containing one check and several pennies. Quickly she ran down each aisle shouting, "Mike, Mike!"
Just then the 8) attendant appeared from the back of the store shouting, "Lady, get down on the floor. I've just been robbed and shot at!"
Sharon quickly dropped to the floor screaming, "Have you seen my boyfriend? He has 9)auburn hair." The man did not reply but went back to the cooler where he found me choking on my vomit. The attendant quickly cleaned my mouth and then called for the police and an ambulance.
Sharon was in shock. She was beginning to understand that I was hurt, but she could not begin to comprehend or imagine the severity of my injury.
When the police arrived they immediately called the 10)homicide division as they did not think I would survive and the 11)paramedic reported that she had never seen a person so severely wounded survive. At 1:30 a.m. my parents who lived in Houston, were awakened by a telephone call from Brackenridge Hospital advising them to come to Austin as soon as possible for they feared I would not make it through the night.
But I did make it through the night and early in the morning the 12)neurosurgeon decided to operate. However, he quickly informed my family and Sharon that my chances of surviving the surgery were only 40/60. If this were not bad enough, the neurosurgeon further shocked my family by telling them what life would be like for me if I 13)beat the odds and survived. He said I probably would never walk, talk, or be able to understand even simple commands.
My family was hoping and praying to hear even the slightest bit of encouragement from that doctor. Instead, his pessimistic words gave my family no reason to believe that I would ever again be a productive member of society. But once again I beat the odds and survived the three and a half hours of surgery.
Granted, I still could not talk, my entire right side was paralyzed and many people thought I could not understand, but at least I was stable. After one week in a private room the doctors felt I had improved enough to be transferred by jet ambulance to Del Oro 14)Rehabilitation Hospital in Houston.
My 15)hallucinations, coupled with my physical problems, made my 16)prognosis still very bleak. However, as time passed my mind began to clear and approximately six weeks later my right leg began to move ever so slightly. Within seven weeks my right arm slowly began to move and at eight weeks I uttered my first few words.
My speech was extremely difficult and slow in the beginning, but at least it was a beginning. I was starting to look forward to each new day to see how far I would progress. But just as I thought my life was finally looking brighter I was tested by the hospital europsychologist. She explained to me that judging from my test results she believed that I should not focus on returning to college but that it would be better to set more "realistic goals."
Upon hearing her evaluation I became furious for I thought, "Who is she to tell me what I can or cannot do. She does not even know me. I am a very determined and stubborn person!" I believe it was at that very moment that I decided I would somehow, someday return to college.
It took me a long time and a lot of hard work but I finally returned to the University of Texas in the fall of 1983 - a year and a half after almost dying. The next few years in Austin were very difficult for me, but I truly believe that in order to see beauty in life you have to experience some unpleasantness. Maybe I have experienced too much unpleasantness, but I believe in living each day to the fullest, and doing the very best I can.
And each new day was very busy and very full, for besides attending classes at the University I underwent therapy three to five days each week at Brackenridge Hospital. If this were not enough I flew to Houston every other weekend to work with Tom Williams, a trainer and executive who had worked for many colleges and professional teams and also had helped many injured athletes, such as Earl Campbell and Eric Dickerson. Through Tom I learned: "Nothing is impossible and never, never give up or quit."
Early, during my therapy, my father kept repeating to me one of his favorite sayings. I have repeated it almost every day since being hurt: "Mile by mile it's a trial; yard by yard it's hard; but inch by inch it's a cinch."
I thought of those words, and I thought of Tom, my family and Sharon who believed so strongly in me as I climbed the steps to receive my diploma from the Dean of Liberal Arts at the University of Texas on that bright sunny afternoon in June of 1986. Excitement and pride filled my heart as I heard the dean announce that I had graduated with "highest honors", been elected to Phi Beta Kappa, and been chosen as one of 12 Dean's Distinguished Graduates out of 1600 in the College of Liberal Arts.
The overwhelming emotions and feelings that I experienced at that very moment, when most of the audience gave me a standing 17)ovation, I felt would never again be matched in my life-not even when I graduated with a masters degree in social work and not even when I became employed full time at the Texas Pain and Stress Center. But I was wrong!
On May 24, 1987, I realized that nothing could ever match the joy I felt as Sharon and I were married. Sharon, my high school sweetheart of nine years, had always stood by me, through good and bad times. To me, Sharon is my miracle, my diamond in a world filled with problems, hurt, and pain. It was Sharon who dropped out of school when I was hurt so that she could constantly be at my side. She never wavered or gave up on me.
It was her faith and love that pulled me through so many dark days. While other nineteen year old girls were going to parties and enjoying life, Sharon devoted her life to my recovery. That, to me, is the true definition of love.
2009年12月13日星期日
I love you, Mum and Dad!
Tears goes out of my eyes when I talk to my parents on the phone. What are they doing when I call them, kid Inflatable Advertising this is what I want to know most. I had supper at 5 o’clock in the dining room. There is no need for me to cook by myself, no need to wash the dishes. However, now it is the busiest time for my parents. Dad has night shift every day, he works from seven o'clock in the morning to nine o'clock in the evening. Therefore, all the housework is left to my mum, besides her own job, she also has to work the vineyard.
Every day she gets up at 4 o’clock in the morning, then works till dark. One day I called her at 7:30 in the evening, she told me that she was still in the vineyard and hadn’t had supper yet. My tears ran down from my cheeks, I was filled with worry. I promise her to study hard in the university, because I am her hope. I promise her to take care of myself, because I am important to her. I promise her to lose weight because she says nice figure is an important factor in future’s competition. I promise her so much and I just want her to promise me that she can take care of herself and dad because they are just like the blood in my body.I cannot live without them.
In my family, everyone is common. We are willing to earn our living by our own hands. We are very happy to have the meal together on the New Year’s Eve. My mother has ever said that everyone in the family is important, no one can be absent.
Mum has ever said that the happiest time for Dad and her is when my sister and I come back home.
We play cards in the room,watch TV,do anything we like,with dad and mum preparing delicious food in the kitchen.It is also the happiest time for me.
At that moment,I could forget all the difficulties and unhappiness.The only thing I would like to do is to enjoy the time with my parents.
Love,sometimes,doesn't need much words.Love your parents like they love us.Give them a call,tell them you miss them...
Every day she gets up at 4 o’clock in the morning, then works till dark. One day I called her at 7:30 in the evening, she told me that she was still in the vineyard and hadn’t had supper yet. My tears ran down from my cheeks, I was filled with worry. I promise her to study hard in the university, because I am her hope. I promise her to take care of myself, because I am important to her. I promise her to lose weight because she says nice figure is an important factor in future’s competition. I promise her so much and I just want her to promise me that she can take care of herself and dad because they are just like the blood in my body.I cannot live without them.
In my family, everyone is common. We are willing to earn our living by our own hands. We are very happy to have the meal together on the New Year’s Eve. My mother has ever said that everyone in the family is important, no one can be absent.
Mum has ever said that the happiest time for Dad and her is when my sister and I come back home.
We play cards in the room,watch TV,do anything we like,with dad and mum preparing delicious food in the kitchen.It is also the happiest time for me.
At that moment,I could forget all the difficulties and unhappiness.The only thing I would like to do is to enjoy the time with my parents.
Love,sometimes,doesn't need much words.Love your parents like they love us.Give them a call,tell them you miss them...
in the heart flowers
On the outskirts of a town in England nestles a nice cottage with a large garden where there lives an old and aged man. The old man is seen pruning, watering or fertilizing his flowers all the time. cheap Inflatable Toys The garden where bees and butterflies dance and gorgeous flowers mass all year around is so well-tended that every passer-by cannot but halt for a glance.
One day a young painter went by the old man’s garden. He gazed at the splendid garden and the special cottage totally lost in admiration at the beauty of these sceneries, picturing how happy he could be if he lived in such a beautiful place. Then, suddenly he found the old gardener was blind. Shocked, the painter approached that old man, asking “why are you busy tending these flowers every day which you can’t see as a matter of fact?” The blind gardener smiled an answer that “ I can tell you four reasons. First, I was a gardener when I was young, and I really like this job. Second, although I can’t see these flowers, yet I can touch them. Third, I can smell the sweetness of them. As to the last one, that’s you.”
“Me? But you don’t know me.” responded the painter perplexed still.
“Yeah, it’s true that I don’t know you. But I know flowers are earthly angels which everyone knows and would never turn them down. I know many a people who show animation in life would stop by and the beauty of my garden will get them into a good mood. In the meantime,it also extends a chance to me to have a word with you here and to enjoy the happiness these flowers have brought us.”
The old man’s words astounded me a great deal with pleasure. The blind man grows flowers and serves them as a link of minds so as to make everybody enjoy the glorious sunshine in spring. He can’t see the beauty he’s created, however, this delightful prospect has had our eyes feasted, our environment embellished and our hearts pleased, which the other way around has also enriched his life. Just like Beethoven with failed eyes, however, composed a sea of heart-gripping melodies. Beethoven himself couldn’t hear his wonderful music. But these classics have passed on through decades and inspired millions of people to take arms against the fate. Isn’t it one kind of happiness?
The blind people in the garden is alone but not lonely. All the flower-appreciators are his friends; all flowers are his neighbours. These flowers sleep in the bosom of moonlight and wake up with the dew’s kiss. When sun shines, the bees hum and buzz by his window with a light greeting. Just think about this lovely picture a little bit, won’t shed joyful tears?
I believe every flower has eyes with which they can see the kindness of the old man’s heart and the sweetness of his soul. The blind man grows flowers in his heart. Failing the sight of the beauty of blossoming, he surely can hear the voice of it, I suppose.
One day a young painter went by the old man’s garden. He gazed at the splendid garden and the special cottage totally lost in admiration at the beauty of these sceneries, picturing how happy he could be if he lived in such a beautiful place. Then, suddenly he found the old gardener was blind. Shocked, the painter approached that old man, asking “why are you busy tending these flowers every day which you can’t see as a matter of fact?” The blind gardener smiled an answer that “ I can tell you four reasons. First, I was a gardener when I was young, and I really like this job. Second, although I can’t see these flowers, yet I can touch them. Third, I can smell the sweetness of them. As to the last one, that’s you.”
“Me? But you don’t know me.” responded the painter perplexed still.
“Yeah, it’s true that I don’t know you. But I know flowers are earthly angels which everyone knows and would never turn them down. I know many a people who show animation in life would stop by and the beauty of my garden will get them into a good mood. In the meantime,it also extends a chance to me to have a word with you here and to enjoy the happiness these flowers have brought us.”
The old man’s words astounded me a great deal with pleasure. The blind man grows flowers and serves them as a link of minds so as to make everybody enjoy the glorious sunshine in spring. He can’t see the beauty he’s created, however, this delightful prospect has had our eyes feasted, our environment embellished and our hearts pleased, which the other way around has also enriched his life. Just like Beethoven with failed eyes, however, composed a sea of heart-gripping melodies. Beethoven himself couldn’t hear his wonderful music. But these classics have passed on through decades and inspired millions of people to take arms against the fate. Isn’t it one kind of happiness?
The blind people in the garden is alone but not lonely. All the flower-appreciators are his friends; all flowers are his neighbours. These flowers sleep in the bosom of moonlight and wake up with the dew’s kiss. When sun shines, the bees hum and buzz by his window with a light greeting. Just think about this lovely picture a little bit, won’t shed joyful tears?
I believe every flower has eyes with which they can see the kindness of the old man’s heart and the sweetness of his soul. The blind man grows flowers in his heart. Failing the sight of the beauty of blossoming, he surely can hear the voice of it, I suppose.
2009年12月11日星期五
everyday
The trend in everyday conversation is to use grandiose words. "Outstanding" is new "good," "amazing" giant Inflatable Jumpers is the new "OK," and "huge" is the new "big."
I was in a restaurant in D.C. last weekend and everything I asked was answered in superlatives.
Me: How s the salmon?
Server: Fantastic!
Me: Does it come with rice?
Server: Absolutely!
Would a "good" and a "yes" have been sufficient? Undeniably!
At Starbucks, the smallest coffee you can order is a Tall. Tall would seem to indicate that there was also a short and medium, with Tall being the largest. But at Starbucks, Tall is small. Grande, which is both Italian and Spanish for large, is medium.
Likewise, at your local 7-Eleven you cannot buy a small: Your choices are Big Gulp, Super Gulp and Extremely Big Gulp. OldBananaNavyGap also did away with the small. You cannot buy anything from the chain stores that is really a "small." My father is an average-sized man. He hasn t gained weight (or height, for that matter) for the past 30 years. Ergo, his size remains the same. But in the same amount of time, his T-shirt size has gone from small/medium to medium to large to extra large.
Upon reflection, the reason for all this colossal-speak is clear: We are bored with our fantastic, wonderful lives. We want the next-next thing now. Now!
And we also want others to think that we still care, that we can still be delighted, that we know that everything is just great. Even when deep inside we know it can t be. Everything can t be great. Hence, we live in a world where extreme is ordinary, where radical is quotidian; exceptional is pedestrian. And to not be overly delighted by the mundane is appalling. It s horrific. And, Dude, that s heinous.
I m not scientist, and my methods of proof leave a little to be desired, or a lot to be desired, or an immensity. An to be honest, I guess I d rather live in a world where people were overly excited than depressed.
But listen to the voices around you. Listen to your own voices. There is nothing on the news that is good or bad, only things that are wonderful or devastating. Even the weather is either beautiful or horrible.
Listen the next time when someone asks you something and you agree, because when you could simply say "yes," instead you will say "absolutely" or "without doubt" or "Oh, yeah, unquestionably - absolutely without doubt."
Have people forgotten what it is like to be OK? Simply OK with what they have and who they are?
I was in a restaurant in D.C. last weekend and everything I asked was answered in superlatives.
Me: How s the salmon?
Server: Fantastic!
Me: Does it come with rice?
Server: Absolutely!
Would a "good" and a "yes" have been sufficient? Undeniably!
At Starbucks, the smallest coffee you can order is a Tall. Tall would seem to indicate that there was also a short and medium, with Tall being the largest. But at Starbucks, Tall is small. Grande, which is both Italian and Spanish for large, is medium.
Likewise, at your local 7-Eleven you cannot buy a small: Your choices are Big Gulp, Super Gulp and Extremely Big Gulp. OldBananaNavyGap also did away with the small. You cannot buy anything from the chain stores that is really a "small." My father is an average-sized man. He hasn t gained weight (or height, for that matter) for the past 30 years. Ergo, his size remains the same. But in the same amount of time, his T-shirt size has gone from small/medium to medium to large to extra large.
Upon reflection, the reason for all this colossal-speak is clear: We are bored with our fantastic, wonderful lives. We want the next-next thing now. Now!
And we also want others to think that we still care, that we can still be delighted, that we know that everything is just great. Even when deep inside we know it can t be. Everything can t be great. Hence, we live in a world where extreme is ordinary, where radical is quotidian; exceptional is pedestrian. And to not be overly delighted by the mundane is appalling. It s horrific. And, Dude, that s heinous.
I m not scientist, and my methods of proof leave a little to be desired, or a lot to be desired, or an immensity. An to be honest, I guess I d rather live in a world where people were overly excited than depressed.
But listen to the voices around you. Listen to your own voices. There is nothing on the news that is good or bad, only things that are wonderful or devastating. Even the weather is either beautiful or horrible.
Listen the next time when someone asks you something and you agree, because when you could simply say "yes," instead you will say "absolutely" or "without doubt" or "Oh, yeah, unquestionably - absolutely without doubt."
Have people forgotten what it is like to be OK? Simply OK with what they have and who they are?
Imprisoned
When the eaves were frozen over with rime ice,
He played his cello through starry nights to the dancing mice.
Regards it more vulgar to satisfy their worldly hunger with rice,
Than to outdoor Inflatable Snowman seduce gamblers with a dirty dice.
On left little finger wears a ring carved out of jade,
Which hand hibernated in a white glove for a decade.
Some guess his soul once had to through despair wade,
Goaded by a stony-heart or a sharp blade.
Before spring rain covered his window with sapphire drops,
The dreamy waltz of his fingers on piano keys never stops.
He said unique prayers; he listens to classical, jazz but no pops,
He occasionally visits galleries, museums and antique shops.
A stern woman brings him twice a month Pu'er tea,
From across an ocean of surging leaves underneath a gingko tree.
She holds the rusty key to his gate yet unable to set him free,
For his solitude is an irrevocable decree.
No grief, no surprise, no insanity, no fears.
No controversy, no sermon, no throb of pain, no tears.
At both superstition and corporal pleasures he sneers,
He played his cello through starry nights to the dancing mice.
Regards it more vulgar to satisfy their worldly hunger with rice,
Than to outdoor Inflatable Snowman seduce gamblers with a dirty dice.
On left little finger wears a ring carved out of jade,
Which hand hibernated in a white glove for a decade.
Some guess his soul once had to through despair wade,
Goaded by a stony-heart or a sharp blade.
Before spring rain covered his window with sapphire drops,
The dreamy waltz of his fingers on piano keys never stops.
He said unique prayers; he listens to classical, jazz but no pops,
He occasionally visits galleries, museums and antique shops.
A stern woman brings him twice a month Pu'er tea,
From across an ocean of surging leaves underneath a gingko tree.
She holds the rusty key to his gate yet unable to set him free,
For his solitude is an irrevocable decree.
No grief, no surprise, no insanity, no fears.
No controversy, no sermon, no throb of pain, no tears.
At both superstition and corporal pleasures he sneers,
The forest
The forest was large and thickly overgrown with all kinds of leaf-bearing trees. Usually, it is cold this time custom Inflatable Arch of year and it even happens that it snow, but this November was relatively warm. You might have thought it was summer except that the whole forest was strewn with fallen leaves－some yellow as saffron, some red as wine, some the color of gold and some of mixed color. The leaves had been torn down by the rain, by the wind, some by day, some at night, and they now formed a deep carpet over the forest floor. Although their juices had run dry, the leaves still exuded a pleasant aroma. The sun shone down on them through the living branches, and worms and flies which had somehow survived the autumn storms crawled over them. The space beneath the leaves provided hiding places for crickets, field mice and many other creatures who sought protection in the earth.
On the tip of a tree which had lost all its other leaves, two still remained hanging from one twig: Ole and Trufa. For some reason unknown to them, Ole and Trufa had survived all the rains, all the cold nights and winds. Who knows the reason one leaf falls and another remains? But Ole and Trufa believed the answer lay in the great love they bore one another. Ole was slightly bigger than Turfa and a few days older, but Trufa was prettier and more delicate. One leaf can do little for another when the wind blows, the rain pours, or the hail begins to fall. Still, Ole encouraged Trufa at every opportunity. During the worst storms, when the thunder clapped, the lightning flashed and the wind tore off not only leaves but even whole branches, Ole pleaded with Trufa: "Hang on, Trufa! Hand on with all your might!"
At times during cold and stormy nights, Trufa would complain: "My time had come, Ole, but you hand on!"
"What for?" Ole asked. "Without you, my life is senseless. If you fall, I'll fall with you."
"NO, Ole, don't do it! So long as a leaf can stay up it mustn't let go."
"It all depends if you stay with me," Ole replied. "By day I look at you and admire your beauty. At night I sense your fragrance. Be the only leaf on a tree? No never!"
"Ole, your words are so sweet but they're not true," Trufa said. "You know very well that I'm no longer pretty. Look how wrinkled I am, how shriveled I've become! Only one thing is still left me－my love for you."
"Isn't that enough? Of all our powers love the highest, the finest," Ole said. "So long as we love each other we remain here, and no wind, rain or storm can destroy us. I'll tell you something, Trufa－I never loved you as much as I love you now."
"Why, Ole? Why? I'm all yellow."
"Who says green is pretty and yellow is not? All colors are equally handsome."
And just as Ole spoke these words, that which Trufa had feared all these months happened－a wind came up and tore Ole loose from the twig. Trufa began to tremble and flutter until it seemed that she, too, would soon be torn away, but she held fast. She saw Ole fall and sway in the air, and she called to him in leafy language: "Ole! Come back! Ole! Ole!"
But before she could even finish, Ole vanished from sight. He blended in with the other leaves on the ground, and Trufa was left all alone on the tree.
So long as it was still day, Trufa managed somehow to endure her grief. But when it grew dark and cold and a piercing rain began to fall, she sank into despair. Somehow she felt that the blame for all the leafy misfortunes lay with the tree, the trunk with all its mighty limbs. Leaves fell, but the trunk stood tall, thick and firmly rooted in the ground. No wind, rain or hail could upset it. What did it matter to a tree, which probably lived forever, what become of a leaf? To Trufa, the trunk was a kind of god. It covered itself with leaves for a few months, then it shook them off. It nourished them with its sap for as long as it pleased, then it let them die of thirst. Trufa pleaded with the tree to give her back her Ole, to make it summer again, but the tree didn't heed her prayers.
Trufa didn't think a night could be so long as this one-so dark, so frosty. She spoke to Ole and hoped for an answer, but Ole was silent and gave no sign of his presence.
Trufa said to the tree: "Since you've taken Ole from me, take me too."
But even this prayer the tree didn't acknowledge.
After a while, Trufa dozed off. This wasn't sleep but a strange languor. Trufa awoke and to her amazement found that she was no longer handing on the tree. The wind had blown her down while she was asleep. This was different from the way she used to feel when she awoke on the tree with the sunrise. All her fears and anxieties had now vanished. The awakening also brought with it an awareness she had never felt before. She knew now that she wasn't just a leaf that depended on every whim of the wind, but that she was part of the universe. Through some mysterious force, Trufa understood the miracle of her molecules, atoms, protons and electrons－the enormous energy she represented and the divine plan of which she was a part.
On the tip of a tree which had lost all its other leaves, two still remained hanging from one twig: Ole and Trufa. For some reason unknown to them, Ole and Trufa had survived all the rains, all the cold nights and winds. Who knows the reason one leaf falls and another remains? But Ole and Trufa believed the answer lay in the great love they bore one another. Ole was slightly bigger than Turfa and a few days older, but Trufa was prettier and more delicate. One leaf can do little for another when the wind blows, the rain pours, or the hail begins to fall. Still, Ole encouraged Trufa at every opportunity. During the worst storms, when the thunder clapped, the lightning flashed and the wind tore off not only leaves but even whole branches, Ole pleaded with Trufa: "Hang on, Trufa! Hand on with all your might!"
At times during cold and stormy nights, Trufa would complain: "My time had come, Ole, but you hand on!"
"What for?" Ole asked. "Without you, my life is senseless. If you fall, I'll fall with you."
"NO, Ole, don't do it! So long as a leaf can stay up it mustn't let go."
"It all depends if you stay with me," Ole replied. "By day I look at you and admire your beauty. At night I sense your fragrance. Be the only leaf on a tree? No never!"
"Ole, your words are so sweet but they're not true," Trufa said. "You know very well that I'm no longer pretty. Look how wrinkled I am, how shriveled I've become! Only one thing is still left me－my love for you."
"Isn't that enough? Of all our powers love the highest, the finest," Ole said. "So long as we love each other we remain here, and no wind, rain or storm can destroy us. I'll tell you something, Trufa－I never loved you as much as I love you now."
"Why, Ole? Why? I'm all yellow."
"Who says green is pretty and yellow is not? All colors are equally handsome."
And just as Ole spoke these words, that which Trufa had feared all these months happened－a wind came up and tore Ole loose from the twig. Trufa began to tremble and flutter until it seemed that she, too, would soon be torn away, but she held fast. She saw Ole fall and sway in the air, and she called to him in leafy language: "Ole! Come back! Ole! Ole!"
But before she could even finish, Ole vanished from sight. He blended in with the other leaves on the ground, and Trufa was left all alone on the tree.
So long as it was still day, Trufa managed somehow to endure her grief. But when it grew dark and cold and a piercing rain began to fall, she sank into despair. Somehow she felt that the blame for all the leafy misfortunes lay with the tree, the trunk with all its mighty limbs. Leaves fell, but the trunk stood tall, thick and firmly rooted in the ground. No wind, rain or hail could upset it. What did it matter to a tree, which probably lived forever, what become of a leaf? To Trufa, the trunk was a kind of god. It covered itself with leaves for a few months, then it shook them off. It nourished them with its sap for as long as it pleased, then it let them die of thirst. Trufa pleaded with the tree to give her back her Ole, to make it summer again, but the tree didn't heed her prayers.
Trufa didn't think a night could be so long as this one-so dark, so frosty. She spoke to Ole and hoped for an answer, but Ole was silent and gave no sign of his presence.
Trufa said to the tree: "Since you've taken Ole from me, take me too."
But even this prayer the tree didn't acknowledge.
After a while, Trufa dozed off. This wasn't sleep but a strange languor. Trufa awoke and to her amazement found that she was no longer handing on the tree. The wind had blown her down while she was asleep. This was different from the way she used to feel when she awoke on the tree with the sunrise. All her fears and anxieties had now vanished. The awakening also brought with it an awareness she had never felt before. She knew now that she wasn't just a leaf that depended on every whim of the wind, but that she was part of the universe. Through some mysterious force, Trufa understood the miracle of her molecules, atoms, protons and electrons－the enormous energy she represented and the divine plan of which she was a part.
Living life over
If I had my life to live over... cheap Inflatable Toys I would have talked less and listened more.
I would have invited friends over to dinner even if the carpet was strained and the sofa faded.
I would have taken the time to listen to my grandfather ramble about his youth.
I would never have insisted the car windows be rolled up on a summer day because my hair had just been teased and sprayed.
I would have burned the pink candle sculpted like a rose before it melted in storage.
I would have sat on the lawn with my children and not worried about grass stains.
I would have cried and laughed less while watching television - and more while watching life.
I would have gone to bed when I was sick instead of pretending the earth would go into a holding patter if I were not there for the day.
I would never have bought anything just because it was practical, would not show soil or was guaranteed to last a life time.
I would have invited friends over to dinner even if the carpet was strained and the sofa faded.
I would have taken the time to listen to my grandfather ramble about his youth.
I would never have insisted the car windows be rolled up on a summer day because my hair had just been teased and sprayed.
I would have burned the pink candle sculpted like a rose before it melted in storage.
I would have sat on the lawn with my children and not worried about grass stains.
I would have cried and laughed less while watching television - and more while watching life.
I would have gone to bed when I was sick instead of pretending the earth would go into a holding patter if I were not there for the day.
I would never have bought anything just because it was practical, would not show soil or was guaranteed to last a life time.
2009年12月10日星期四
If It Comes Back
Charles saw them both at the same time: a small white bird and the girl wheeling down the walk. The bird glided downward and rested in the grass; the girl directed the chair smoothly along the sunlit, cheap Christmas Decorations shadowy1 walk. She stopped to watch the ducks on the pond and when she shoved2 the wheels again, Charles stood up. “May I push you?” he called, running across the grass to her. The white bird flew to the top of a tree.
It was mostly he who talked and he seemed afraid to stop for fear she'd ask him to leave her by herself. Nothing in her face had supported the idea of helplessness conveyed by the wheelchair, and he knew that his assistance was not viewed as a favor. He asked the cause of her handicap3 .
“It was an automobile accident when I was twelve,” Amy explained.
They went for lunch, and he would have felt awkward4 except that she knew completely how to take care of herself.
“Do you live with someone?” he asked the next day when they met.
“Just myself,” she answered. Asking the question made him feel uneasy because of his own loneliness even though he was hoping for this answer.
He came to like to feel the white handles in his grasp, to walk between the two white-rimmed metal wheels. And he grew almost more familiar with the slight wave at the back of her hair than with her eyes or her mouth. Once, he said to the wave at the back of her hair,“I hope I'm the only chair-pusher in your life,” but she had only smiled a little and her eyes had admitted nothing.
She cooked dinner for him once in June. He expected her to be proud of her ability to do everything from her seat in the wheelchair—and was faintly5 disappointed to see that she would not feel pride at what was, for her, simply a matter of course6. He watched his own hand pick up the salt shaker7 and place it on one of the higher unused shelves, and awaited her plea8 for assistance. He didn't know why he'd done it, but the look in her eyes made him realize how cruel his prank9 was. To make her forget what he'd done, he told her about the little white bird in the park.
“I've seen it, too,” she said. “I read a poem once about a little white bird that came to rest on a windowsill10 and the lady who lived in the house began to put out food for it. Soon the lady fell in love, but it was a mismatched11 love. Every day the little bird came to the window and the lady put out food. When the love affair was over, the little white bird never returned, but the woman went on putting out the crumbs12 every day for years and the wind just blew them away."
In July he took her boating frequently. The most awkward event, she felt, was getting in and out of the boat. For Charles, however, these “freight handlings,” as she came to call it, seemed to be the highlight13 of the outings. In the boat she felt helpless, unable to move around, sitting in one spot. Also, she was unable to swim, should the boat turn over. Charles didn't observe her discomfort; she did note how much he enjoyed being in control. When he called for her one day in early August, she refused to.
They would, instead, she said, go for a walk in which she would move herself by the strength of her own arms and he would walk beside her.
It was mostly he who talked and he seemed afraid to stop for fear she'd ask him to leave her by herself. Nothing in her face had supported the idea of helplessness conveyed by the wheelchair, and he knew that his assistance was not viewed as a favor. He asked the cause of her handicap3 .
“It was an automobile accident when I was twelve,” Amy explained.
They went for lunch, and he would have felt awkward4 except that she knew completely how to take care of herself.
“Do you live with someone?” he asked the next day when they met.
“Just myself,” she answered. Asking the question made him feel uneasy because of his own loneliness even though he was hoping for this answer.
He came to like to feel the white handles in his grasp, to walk between the two white-rimmed metal wheels. And he grew almost more familiar with the slight wave at the back of her hair than with her eyes or her mouth. Once, he said to the wave at the back of her hair,“I hope I'm the only chair-pusher in your life,” but she had only smiled a little and her eyes had admitted nothing.
She cooked dinner for him once in June. He expected her to be proud of her ability to do everything from her seat in the wheelchair—and was faintly5 disappointed to see that she would not feel pride at what was, for her, simply a matter of course6. He watched his own hand pick up the salt shaker7 and place it on one of the higher unused shelves, and awaited her plea8 for assistance. He didn't know why he'd done it, but the look in her eyes made him realize how cruel his prank9 was. To make her forget what he'd done, he told her about the little white bird in the park.
“I've seen it, too,” she said. “I read a poem once about a little white bird that came to rest on a windowsill10 and the lady who lived in the house began to put out food for it. Soon the lady fell in love, but it was a mismatched11 love. Every day the little bird came to the window and the lady put out food. When the love affair was over, the little white bird never returned, but the woman went on putting out the crumbs12 every day for years and the wind just blew them away."
In July he took her boating frequently. The most awkward event, she felt, was getting in and out of the boat. For Charles, however, these “freight handlings,” as she came to call it, seemed to be the highlight13 of the outings. In the boat she felt helpless, unable to move around, sitting in one spot. Also, she was unable to swim, should the boat turn over. Charles didn't observe her discomfort; she did note how much he enjoyed being in control. When he called for her one day in early August, she refused to.
They would, instead, she said, go for a walk in which she would move herself by the strength of her own arms and he would walk beside her.
Life's Balance
Imagine life as a game in which you are juggling five balls in the air. You name them: work, family, for sale Inflatable Advertising health, friends, and spirit, and you're keeping all of them in the air. You will soon understand that work is a rubber ball. If you drop it, it will bounce back. But the other four balls--family, health, friends, and spirit are made of glass. If you drop one of these, they will be irrevocably scuffed, marked, nicked, damaged, or even shattered. They will never be the same. You must understand that and strive for balance in your life.
How? Don't undermine your worth by comparing yourself with others. It is because we are different that each of us is special. Don't set your goals by what other people deem important. Only you know what is best for you. Don't take for granted the things closest to your heart. Cling to them as you would your life, for without them, life is meaningless. Don't le t life slip through your fingers by living in the past or for the future. By living your life one day at a time you live ALL the days of your life. Don't give up when you still have something to give. Nothing is really over until the moment you stop trying. Don't be afraid to admit that you are less than perfect. It is this fragile thread that binds us together. Don't be afraid to encounter risks. It is by taking chances that we learn to be brave. Don't shut love out of your life by saying it's impossible to find. The quickest way to receive love is to give; the fastest way to lose love is to hold it too tightly; and the best way to keep love is to give it wings. Don't run thruogh life so fast that you forget not only where you've been, but also where you are going.
How? Don't undermine your worth by comparing yourself with others. It is because we are different that each of us is special. Don't set your goals by what other people deem important. Only you know what is best for you. Don't take for granted the things closest to your heart. Cling to them as you would your life, for without them, life is meaningless. Don't le t life slip through your fingers by living in the past or for the future. By living your life one day at a time you live ALL the days of your life. Don't give up when you still have something to give. Nothing is really over until the moment you stop trying. Don't be afraid to admit that you are less than perfect. It is this fragile thread that binds us together. Don't be afraid to encounter risks. It is by taking chances that we learn to be brave. Don't shut love out of your life by saying it's impossible to find. The quickest way to receive love is to give; the fastest way to lose love is to hold it too tightly; and the best way to keep love is to give it wings. Don't run thruogh life so fast that you forget not only where you've been, but also where you are going.
Blue Beard
Once there was a veryrich man. He lived in a beautiful house, and had a beautiful garden. The richman had a blue beard: so he was called "Blue Beard."
Near the rich man’shouse there lived a poor woman. She had three sons, and two beautiful girls. giant Inflatable Toys The name of one of the girls was Ann; the name of the other was Fatima. Blue Beard wanted to marryone of the girls; but the girls did not want to marryBlue Beard.
Ann and Fatima did notwant to marry the rich man becausehis beard was blue. Blue Beard had married many wives, but his wives had goneaway. No one knew where his other wives had gone. The girls did not want to marry Blue Beard and become his wife, because no oneknew where his other wives had gone. So their mother said to Blue Beard,"My girls do not want to marryyou."
Then Blue Beard said," Come and live in my house for some days." So they went and lived inBlue Beard’s house. It was a very beautiful house, and Blue Beard was good tothem in many ways.
Fatima said, "His beard is blue, but he is not a bad man. He is verygood in some ways. So I will marry him."
So Fatimamarried Blue Beard and went to live in the beautiful house.
Some days went by.Then Blue Beard said, "I shall go on a journey.’ Then he gave Fatima the keys of all the rooms in the house. He said,"This is the key of that little room; do not open the door of it. …Saythat you will not open the door of the little room!"
Fatima said, "I will not open the door of that little room."
Then Blue Beard wentaway.
When Blue Beard wasaway, all Fatima’s friends came to see her. She showed them the rooms, and whata beautiful house it was; but she did not open the door of the little room.
The friends went away.Then Fatima said, "Shall I open the door of that little room now? Why didhe say, "Do not open it’? I want to see what is in the little room."
Fatima took the key;she went to the door of the little room, and opened it. In the room she saw allBlue Beard’s other wives. They were dead!
The key fell from herhand. When she took it up there was a red mark on it.
She shut the door.Then she took the key to her room. She said, "Blue Beard will see the markon the key; he will know that I have opened the door of the little room, and hewill kill me, as he killed all the other wives." She rubbed the key with acloth, but the mark did not go away. She washed the key in hot water, but themark was not washed away. She rubbed the key on a stone, but she could not rubthe mark away.
Blue Beard came back.He called Fatima, and said, "Give me my keys." Fatima gave him theother keys; but she did not give him the key of the little room. He said,"Where is the key of the little room?" She said, "I will bringit." She went and brought it; and he saw the red mark. He said, "Youhave opened the door of the tittle room. Now you shall die."
She fell at hisfeet:" Give me some hours to live," she said.
He said, "I willgive you one hour."
Fatima had threebrothers. Her brothers had said, "We shall come and see you today;"but they had not come. She said, "If my brothers come in this hour theywill save me."
Her sister Ann was inthe house. She called to her, "Sister Ann, Sister Ann, go to the windowand see if my brothers are coming."
Sister Ann went to thewindow; she said, "I see no one coming."
Fatima waited alittle; then she cried, " Sister Ann, Sister Ann, do you see anyonecoming?"
Sister Ann said,"I do not see anyone; no one is coming."
Blue Beard called,"Fatima!"
Fatima said,"Sister Ann, Sister Ann, is anyone coming?"
"I see a littledust," said Sister Ann, "very far away."
Blue Beard called,"Fatima, come down."
"Sister Ann,Sister Ann," Said Fatima, "is there anyone in the dust?"
"I see men in thedust," said Sister Ann.
Blue Beard called,"An hour has gone by. Come down, Fatima, and I shall kill you."
" Sister Ann,Sister Ann, are three men in the dust?"
Blue Beard called,"An hour has gone by. If you do not come down, I shall come up."
"I see threemen," said Sister Ann.
"They are mybrothers!" said Fatima.
Fatima said, "Sister Ann, Sister Ann, call to them to come and save me."
Blue Beard called."I am coming up," he said.
"Sister Ann, callto them, Sister Ann!"
Blue Beard came to thedoor.
The door opened: BlueBeard caught Fatima’s arm.
The three brotherscame in, and killed Blue Beard.
So Fatima was saved.
Near the rich man’shouse there lived a poor woman. She had three sons, and two beautiful girls. giant Inflatable Toys The name of one of the girls was Ann; the name of the other was Fatima. Blue Beard wanted to marryone of the girls; but the girls did not want to marryBlue Beard.
Ann and Fatima did notwant to marry the rich man becausehis beard was blue. Blue Beard had married many wives, but his wives had goneaway. No one knew where his other wives had gone. The girls did not want to marry Blue Beard and become his wife, because no oneknew where his other wives had gone. So their mother said to Blue Beard,"My girls do not want to marryyou."
Then Blue Beard said," Come and live in my house for some days." So they went and lived inBlue Beard’s house. It was a very beautiful house, and Blue Beard was good tothem in many ways.
Fatima said, "His beard is blue, but he is not a bad man. He is verygood in some ways. So I will marry him."
So Fatimamarried Blue Beard and went to live in the beautiful house.
Some days went by.Then Blue Beard said, "I shall go on a journey.’ Then he gave Fatima the keys of all the rooms in the house. He said,"This is the key of that little room; do not open the door of it. …Saythat you will not open the door of the little room!"
Fatima said, "I will not open the door of that little room."
Then Blue Beard wentaway.
When Blue Beard wasaway, all Fatima’s friends came to see her. She showed them the rooms, and whata beautiful house it was; but she did not open the door of the little room.
The friends went away.Then Fatima said, "Shall I open the door of that little room now? Why didhe say, "Do not open it’? I want to see what is in the little room."
Fatima took the key;she went to the door of the little room, and opened it. In the room she saw allBlue Beard’s other wives. They were dead!
The key fell from herhand. When she took it up there was a red mark on it.
She shut the door.Then she took the key to her room. She said, "Blue Beard will see the markon the key; he will know that I have opened the door of the little room, and hewill kill me, as he killed all the other wives." She rubbed the key with acloth, but the mark did not go away. She washed the key in hot water, but themark was not washed away. She rubbed the key on a stone, but she could not rubthe mark away.
Blue Beard came back.He called Fatima, and said, "Give me my keys." Fatima gave him theother keys; but she did not give him the key of the little room. He said,"Where is the key of the little room?" She said, "I will bringit." She went and brought it; and he saw the red mark. He said, "Youhave opened the door of the tittle room. Now you shall die."
She fell at hisfeet:" Give me some hours to live," she said.
He said, "I willgive you one hour."
Fatima had threebrothers. Her brothers had said, "We shall come and see you today;"but they had not come. She said, "If my brothers come in this hour theywill save me."
Her sister Ann was inthe house. She called to her, "Sister Ann, Sister Ann, go to the windowand see if my brothers are coming."
Sister Ann went to thewindow; she said, "I see no one coming."
Fatima waited alittle; then she cried, " Sister Ann, Sister Ann, do you see anyonecoming?"
Sister Ann said,"I do not see anyone; no one is coming."
Blue Beard called,"Fatima!"
Fatima said,"Sister Ann, Sister Ann, is anyone coming?"
"I see a littledust," said Sister Ann, "very far away."
Blue Beard called,"Fatima, come down."
"Sister Ann,Sister Ann," Said Fatima, "is there anyone in the dust?"
"I see men in thedust," said Sister Ann.
Blue Beard called,"An hour has gone by. Come down, Fatima, and I shall kill you."
" Sister Ann,Sister Ann, are three men in the dust?"
Blue Beard called,"An hour has gone by. If you do not come down, I shall come up."
"I see threemen," said Sister Ann.
"They are mybrothers!" said Fatima.
Fatima said, "Sister Ann, Sister Ann, call to them to come and save me."
Blue Beard called."I am coming up," he said.
"Sister Ann, callto them, Sister Ann!"
Blue Beard came to thedoor.
The door opened: BlueBeard caught Fatima’s arm.
The three brotherscame in, and killed Blue Beard.
So Fatima was saved.
2009年12月9日星期三
The story of an hour
Knowing that Mrs.yard Inflatable Arch Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband's death.
It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences, veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband's friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard's name leading the list of "killed." He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.
She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister's arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her.
There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul.
She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which some one was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.
There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled above the other in the west facing her window.
She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.
She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.
There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.
Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will-as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been.
When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under her breath: "Free, free, free!" The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.
She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial.
She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome.
There would be no one to live for her during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending her in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.
And yet she had loved him-sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in face of this possession of self-assertion, which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!
"Free! Body and soul free!" she kept whispering.
Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhole,imploring for admission. "Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door-you will make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heaven's sake open the door."
"Go away. I am not making myself ill." No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window.
Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.
She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister's waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.
Someone was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his gripsack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine's piercing cry; at Richards' quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.
It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences, veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband's friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard's name leading the list of "killed." He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.
She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister's arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her.
There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul.
She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which some one was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.
There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled above the other in the west facing her window.
She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.
She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.
There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.
Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will-as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been.
When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under her breath: "Free, free, free!" The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.
She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial.
She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome.
There would be no one to live for her during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending her in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.
And yet she had loved him-sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in face of this possession of self-assertion, which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!
"Free! Body and soul free!" she kept whispering.
Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhole,imploring for admission. "Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door-you will make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heaven's sake open the door."
"Go away. I am not making myself ill." No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window.
Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.
She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister's waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.
Someone was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his gripsack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine's piercing cry; at Richards' quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.
wo
A little mouse living on a farm was looking through a crack in the wall one day and saw the farmer and his wife opening a package.
The mouse was intrigued by what food the package may contain. He was aghast to discover that it was a mousetrap. adult Inflatable Slide The mouse ran to the farmyard warning everyone: “There is a mousetrap in the house, there is a mousetrap in the house.”
The chick raised his head and said, “Mr. Mouse, I can tell you this trap is a grave concern to you, but it has no consequence to me and I cannot be bothered with it.”
The mouse turned to the pig, “I am so sorry Mr. Mouse, but the trap is no concern of mine either!” the pig said.
The mouse then turned to the bull, “It sounds like you have a problem, Mr. Mouse, but not one that concerns me.” the bull said.
The mouse returned to the house, head down and dejected that no one would help him or has concerned about his dilemma.
He knew he had to face the trap on his own. That night the sound of a trap catching its prey was heard throughout the house. The farmer’s wife rushed to see what was caught. In the darkness she could not see that it was a venomous snake whose tail the trap had caught.
The snake bit the farmer’s wife. The wife caught a bad fever and the farmer knew the best way to treat a fever was with chicken soup. The farmer took his hatchet to the farmyard to get the soup’s main ingredient.
The wife got sicker and friends and neighbors came by to take turns sitting with her round the clock. The farmer knew he had to feed them, so he butchered the pig.
The farmer’s wife did not get better, in fact she died and so many friends and family came to her funeral that the farmer had to slaughter the bull to feed all of them.
So the next time we hear that one of our teammates is facing a problem and think it does not concern or effect us, let us remember that when any one of us is in trouble, we are all at risk.
Life is a celebration. Be happy and make others happy.
The mouse was intrigued by what food the package may contain. He was aghast to discover that it was a mousetrap. adult Inflatable Slide The mouse ran to the farmyard warning everyone: “There is a mousetrap in the house, there is a mousetrap in the house.”
The chick raised his head and said, “Mr. Mouse, I can tell you this trap is a grave concern to you, but it has no consequence to me and I cannot be bothered with it.”
The mouse turned to the pig, “I am so sorry Mr. Mouse, but the trap is no concern of mine either!” the pig said.
The mouse then turned to the bull, “It sounds like you have a problem, Mr. Mouse, but not one that concerns me.” the bull said.
The mouse returned to the house, head down and dejected that no one would help him or has concerned about his dilemma.
He knew he had to face the trap on his own. That night the sound of a trap catching its prey was heard throughout the house. The farmer’s wife rushed to see what was caught. In the darkness she could not see that it was a venomous snake whose tail the trap had caught.
The snake bit the farmer’s wife. The wife caught a bad fever and the farmer knew the best way to treat a fever was with chicken soup. The farmer took his hatchet to the farmyard to get the soup’s main ingredient.
The wife got sicker and friends and neighbors came by to take turns sitting with her round the clock. The farmer knew he had to feed them, so he butchered the pig.
The farmer’s wife did not get better, in fact she died and so many friends and family came to her funeral that the farmer had to slaughter the bull to feed all of them.
So the next time we hear that one of our teammates is facing a problem and think it does not concern or effect us, let us remember that when any one of us is in trouble, we are all at risk.
Life is a celebration. Be happy and make others happy.
2009年12月7日星期一
Marriage,Love and Freedom
You are asking, custom Inflatable Games "Is it possible to be married and to be free?"
If you take marriage non-seriously, then you can be free. If you take it seriously, then freedom is impossible. Take marriage just as a game -- it is a game. Have a little sense of humor, that it is a role you are playing on the stage of life; but it is not something that belongs to existence or has any reality -- it is a fiction.
But people are so stupid that they even start taking fiction for reality. I have seen people reading fiction with tears in their eyes, because in the fiction things are going so tragically. It is a very good device in the movies that they put the lights off, so everybody can enjoy the movie, laugh, cry, be sad, be happy.
If there was light it would be a little difficult -- what will others think? And they know perfectly well that the screen is empty -- there is nobody; it is just a projected picture. But they forget it completely.
And the same has happened with our lives. Many things which are simply to be taken humorously, we take so seriously -- and from that seriousness begins our problem.
In the first place, why should you get married? You love someone, live with someone -- it is part of your basic rights. You can live with someone, you can love someone.
Marriage is not something that happens in heaven, it happens here, through the crafty priests. But if you want to join the game with society and don't want to stand alone and aloof, you make it clear to your wife or to your husband that this marriage is just a game:
"Never take it seriously. I will remain as independent as I was before marriage, and you will remain as independent as you were before marriage. Neither I am going to interfere in your life, nor are you going to interfere in my life; we will live as two friends together, sharing our joys, sharing our freedom -- but not becoming a burden on each other.
And any moment we feel that the spring has passed, the honeymoon is over, we will be sincere enough not to go on pretending, but to say to each other that we loved much -- and we will remain grateful to each other forever, and the days of love will haunt us in our memories, in our dreams, as golden -- but the spring is over.
Our paths have come to a point, where although it is sad, we have to part, because now, living together is not a sign of love. If I love you, I will leave you the moment I see my love has become a misery to you. If you love me, you will leave me the moment you see that your love is creating an imprisonment for me."
Love is the highest value in life: It should not be reduced to stupid rituals. And love and freedom go together -- you cannot choose one and leave the other. A man who knows freedom is full of love, and a man who knows love is always willing to give freedom.
If you cannot give freedom to the person you love, to whom can you give freedom? Giving freedom is nothing but trusting. Freedom is an expression of love.
So whether you are married or not, remember, all marriages are fake -- just social conveniences. Their purpose is not to imprison you and bind you to each other; their purpose is to help you to grow with each other. But growth needs freedom; and in the past, all the cultures have forgotten that without freedom, love dies.
You see a bird on the wing in the sun, in the sky, and it looks so beautiful. Attracted by its beauty, you can catch the bird and put it in a golden cage.
Do you think it is the same bird? Superficially, yes, it is the same bird who was flying in the sky; but deep down it is not the same bird -- because where is its sky, where is its freedom?
If you take marriage non-seriously, then you can be free. If you take it seriously, then freedom is impossible. Take marriage just as a game -- it is a game. Have a little sense of humor, that it is a role you are playing on the stage of life; but it is not something that belongs to existence or has any reality -- it is a fiction.
But people are so stupid that they even start taking fiction for reality. I have seen people reading fiction with tears in their eyes, because in the fiction things are going so tragically. It is a very good device in the movies that they put the lights off, so everybody can enjoy the movie, laugh, cry, be sad, be happy.
If there was light it would be a little difficult -- what will others think? And they know perfectly well that the screen is empty -- there is nobody; it is just a projected picture. But they forget it completely.
And the same has happened with our lives. Many things which are simply to be taken humorously, we take so seriously -- and from that seriousness begins our problem.
In the first place, why should you get married? You love someone, live with someone -- it is part of your basic rights. You can live with someone, you can love someone.
Marriage is not something that happens in heaven, it happens here, through the crafty priests. But if you want to join the game with society and don't want to stand alone and aloof, you make it clear to your wife or to your husband that this marriage is just a game:
"Never take it seriously. I will remain as independent as I was before marriage, and you will remain as independent as you were before marriage. Neither I am going to interfere in your life, nor are you going to interfere in my life; we will live as two friends together, sharing our joys, sharing our freedom -- but not becoming a burden on each other.
And any moment we feel that the spring has passed, the honeymoon is over, we will be sincere enough not to go on pretending, but to say to each other that we loved much -- and we will remain grateful to each other forever, and the days of love will haunt us in our memories, in our dreams, as golden -- but the spring is over.
Our paths have come to a point, where although it is sad, we have to part, because now, living together is not a sign of love. If I love you, I will leave you the moment I see my love has become a misery to you. If you love me, you will leave me the moment you see that your love is creating an imprisonment for me."
Love is the highest value in life: It should not be reduced to stupid rituals. And love and freedom go together -- you cannot choose one and leave the other. A man who knows freedom is full of love, and a man who knows love is always willing to give freedom.
If you cannot give freedom to the person you love, to whom can you give freedom? Giving freedom is nothing but trusting. Freedom is an expression of love.
So whether you are married or not, remember, all marriages are fake -- just social conveniences. Their purpose is not to imprison you and bind you to each other; their purpose is to help you to grow with each other. But growth needs freedom; and in the past, all the cultures have forgotten that without freedom, love dies.
You see a bird on the wing in the sun, in the sky, and it looks so beautiful. Attracted by its beauty, you can catch the bird and put it in a golden cage.
Do you think it is the same bird? Superficially, yes, it is the same bird who was flying in the sky; but deep down it is not the same bird -- because where is its sky, where is its freedom?
Every day is a lucky day
I teach economics at UNLV three times per week. Last Monday, at the beginning of class, I cheerfully asked my students how their weekend had been. One young man said that his weekend had not been so good. He had his wisdom teeth removed.giant Inflatable Camping Tent The young man then proceeded to ask me why I always seemed to be so cheerful.
His question reminded me of something I‘d read somewhere before: "Every morning when you get up, you have a choice about how you want to approach life that day," I said. "I choose to be cheerful."
"Let me give you an example," I continued, addressing all sixty students in the class. "In addition to teaching here at UNLV, I also teach out at the community college in Henderson, 17 miles down the freeway from where I live. One day a few weeks ago I drove those 17 miles to Henderson. I exited the freeway and turned onto College Drive. I only had to drive another quarter mile down the road to the college. But just then my car died. I tried to start it again, but the engine wouldn‘t turn over. So I put my flashers on, grabbed my books, and marched down the road to the college."
"As soon as I got there I called AAA and arranged for a tow truck to meet me at my car after class. The secretary in the Provost‘s office asked me what has happened. ‘This is my lucky day,‘ I replied, smiling."
" ‘Your car breaks down and today is your lucky day?‘ She was puzzled. ‘What do you mean?‘"
" ‘I live 17 miles from here.‘ I replied. ‘My car could have broken down anywhere along the freeway. It didn‘t. Instead, it broke down in the perfect place: off the freeway, within walking distance of here. I‘m still able to teach my class, and I‘ve been able to arrange for the tow truck to meet me after class. If my car was meant to break down today, it couldn‘t have been arranged in a more convenient fashion.‘"
"The secretary‘s eyes opened wide, and then she smiled. I smiled back and headed for class." So ended my story.
His question reminded me of something I‘d read somewhere before: "Every morning when you get up, you have a choice about how you want to approach life that day," I said. "I choose to be cheerful."
"Let me give you an example," I continued, addressing all sixty students in the class. "In addition to teaching here at UNLV, I also teach out at the community college in Henderson, 17 miles down the freeway from where I live. One day a few weeks ago I drove those 17 miles to Henderson. I exited the freeway and turned onto College Drive. I only had to drive another quarter mile down the road to the college. But just then my car died. I tried to start it again, but the engine wouldn‘t turn over. So I put my flashers on, grabbed my books, and marched down the road to the college."
"As soon as I got there I called AAA and arranged for a tow truck to meet me at my car after class. The secretary in the Provost‘s office asked me what has happened. ‘This is my lucky day,‘ I replied, smiling."
" ‘Your car breaks down and today is your lucky day?‘ She was puzzled. ‘What do you mean?‘"
" ‘I live 17 miles from here.‘ I replied. ‘My car could have broken down anywhere along the freeway. It didn‘t. Instead, it broke down in the perfect place: off the freeway, within walking distance of here. I‘m still able to teach my class, and I‘ve been able to arrange for the tow truck to meet me after class. If my car was meant to break down today, it couldn‘t have been arranged in a more convenient fashion.‘"
"The secretary‘s eyes opened wide, and then she smiled. I smiled back and headed for class." So ended my story.
The wisdom of one word
Isn’t it amazing how one person, sharing one idea, at the right time and place can change the course of your life’s history? giant Inflatable Human Spheres This is certainly what happened in my life. When I was 14, I was hitchhiking from Houston, Texas, through El Paso on my way to California. I was following my dream, journeying with the sun. I was a high school dropout with learning disabilities and was set on surfing the biggest waves in the world, first in California and then in Hawaii, where I would later live.
Upon reaching downtown El Paso, I met an old man, a bum, on the street corner. He saw me walking, stopped me and questioned me as I passed by. He asked me if I was running away from home, I suppose because I looked so young. I told him, "Not exactly, sir," since my father had given me a ride to the freeway in Houston and given me his blessings while saying, "It is important to follow your dream and what is in your heart, Son.”
The bum then asked me if he could buy me a cup of coffee. I told him, "No, sir, but a soda would be great." We walked to a corner malt4 shop and sat down on a couple of swiveling stools while we enjoyed our drinks.
After conversing for a few minutes, the friendly bum told me to follow him. He told me that he had something grand to show me and share with me. We walked a couple of blocks until we came upon the downtown El Paso Public Library.
We walked up its front steps and stopped at a small information stand. Here the bum spoke to a smiling old lady, and asked her if she would be kind enough to watch my things for a moment while he and I entered the library. I left my belongings with this grandmotherly figure and entered into this magnificent hall of learning.
The bum first led me to a table and asked me to sit down and wait for a moment while he looked for something special amongst the shelves. A few moments later, he returned with a couple of old books under his arms and set them on the table. He then sat down beside me and spoke. He started with a few statements that were very special and that changed my life. He said, "There are two things that I want to teach you, young man, and they are these:
"Number one is to never judge a book by its cover, for a cover can fool you." He followed with, "I’ll bet you think I m a bum, don t you, young man?"
I said, "Well, uh, yes, I guess so, sir."
"Well, young man, I’ve got a little surprise for you. I am one of the wealthiest men in the world. I have probably everything any man could ever want. I originally come from the Northeast and have all the things that money can buy. But a year ago, my wife passed away, bless her soul, and since then I have been deeply reflecting upon life. I realized there were certain things I had not yet experienced in life, one of which was what it would be like to live like a bum on the streets. I made a commitment to myself to do exactly that for one year. For the past year, I have been going from city to city doing just that. So, you see, don’t ever judge a book by its cover, for a cover can fool you.
"Number two is to learn how to read, my boy. For there is only one thing that people can’t take away from you, and that is your wisdom." At that moment, he reached forward, grabbed my right hand in his and put them upon the books he d pulled from the shelves. They were the writings of Plato and Aristotle-immortal classics from ancient times.
Upon reaching downtown El Paso, I met an old man, a bum, on the street corner. He saw me walking, stopped me and questioned me as I passed by. He asked me if I was running away from home, I suppose because I looked so young. I told him, "Not exactly, sir," since my father had given me a ride to the freeway in Houston and given me his blessings while saying, "It is important to follow your dream and what is in your heart, Son.”
The bum then asked me if he could buy me a cup of coffee. I told him, "No, sir, but a soda would be great." We walked to a corner malt4 shop and sat down on a couple of swiveling stools while we enjoyed our drinks.
After conversing for a few minutes, the friendly bum told me to follow him. He told me that he had something grand to show me and share with me. We walked a couple of blocks until we came upon the downtown El Paso Public Library.
We walked up its front steps and stopped at a small information stand. Here the bum spoke to a smiling old lady, and asked her if she would be kind enough to watch my things for a moment while he and I entered the library. I left my belongings with this grandmotherly figure and entered into this magnificent hall of learning.
The bum first led me to a table and asked me to sit down and wait for a moment while he looked for something special amongst the shelves. A few moments later, he returned with a couple of old books under his arms and set them on the table. He then sat down beside me and spoke. He started with a few statements that were very special and that changed my life. He said, "There are two things that I want to teach you, young man, and they are these:
"Number one is to never judge a book by its cover, for a cover can fool you." He followed with, "I’ll bet you think I m a bum, don t you, young man?"
I said, "Well, uh, yes, I guess so, sir."
"Well, young man, I’ve got a little surprise for you. I am one of the wealthiest men in the world. I have probably everything any man could ever want. I originally come from the Northeast and have all the things that money can buy. But a year ago, my wife passed away, bless her soul, and since then I have been deeply reflecting upon life. I realized there were certain things I had not yet experienced in life, one of which was what it would be like to live like a bum on the streets. I made a commitment to myself to do exactly that for one year. For the past year, I have been going from city to city doing just that. So, you see, don’t ever judge a book by its cover, for a cover can fool you.
"Number two is to learn how to read, my boy. For there is only one thing that people can’t take away from you, and that is your wisdom." At that moment, he reached forward, grabbed my right hand in his and put them upon the books he d pulled from the shelves. They were the writings of Plato and Aristotle-immortal classics from ancient times.
father
If it was going to easy, it never would have started with something called labor!
Shouting to make your children obey is like using the horn to steer your car, and you get about the same results.adult Holiday Inflatables
To be in your children’s memories tomorrow, you have to be in their lives today.
The smartest advice on raising children is to enjoy them while they are still on your side.
The best way to keep kids at home is to give it a loving atmosphere and hide the keys to the car.
The right temperature in a home is maintained by warm hearts, not by hot heads.
Parents: People who bare infants, bore teenagers, and board newlyweds.
The joy of motherhood : What a woman experiences when all the children are finally in bed.
Life’s garden age is when the kids are too old to need baby-sitters and too young to borrow the family car.
Grandparents are similar to a piece of string-handy to have around and easily wrapped around the fingers of grandchildren.
A child outgrows your lap, but never outgrows your heart.
God gave you two ears and one mouth…so you should listen twice as much as you talk.
There are three ways to get something done: Do it yourself, hire someone to do it, or forbid your children to do it.
Adolescence is the age when children try to bring up their parents.
Cleaning your house while your kids are at home is like trying to shovel the driveway during a snowstorm.
Oh, to be only half as wonderful as my child thought I was when he was small, and half an stupid as my teenager now thinks I am.
There are only two things a child will share willingly: communicable diseases and his mother’s age.
Money isn’t everything , but it sure keeps the kids in touch.
Adolescence is the age at which children stop asking questions because they know all the answers.
An alarm clock is a device for awakening people who don’t have small children.
No wonder kids are confused today. Half the adults tell them to find themselves; the other half tell them to get lost.
People hardest to convince that it’s time for retirement are children at bedtime.
Shouting to make your children obey is like using the horn to steer your car, and you get about the same results.adult Holiday Inflatables
To be in your children’s memories tomorrow, you have to be in their lives today.
The smartest advice on raising children is to enjoy them while they are still on your side.
The best way to keep kids at home is to give it a loving atmosphere and hide the keys to the car.
The right temperature in a home is maintained by warm hearts, not by hot heads.
Parents: People who bare infants, bore teenagers, and board newlyweds.
The joy of motherhood : What a woman experiences when all the children are finally in bed.
Life’s garden age is when the kids are too old to need baby-sitters and too young to borrow the family car.
Grandparents are similar to a piece of string-handy to have around and easily wrapped around the fingers of grandchildren.
A child outgrows your lap, but never outgrows your heart.
God gave you two ears and one mouth…so you should listen twice as much as you talk.
There are three ways to get something done: Do it yourself, hire someone to do it, or forbid your children to do it.
Adolescence is the age when children try to bring up their parents.
Cleaning your house while your kids are at home is like trying to shovel the driveway during a snowstorm.
Oh, to be only half as wonderful as my child thought I was when he was small, and half an stupid as my teenager now thinks I am.
There are only two things a child will share willingly: communicable diseases and his mother’s age.
Money isn’t everything , but it sure keeps the kids in touch.
Adolescence is the age at which children stop asking questions because they know all the answers.
An alarm clock is a device for awakening people who don’t have small children.
No wonder kids are confused today. Half the adults tell them to find themselves; the other half tell them to get lost.
People hardest to convince that it’s time for retirement are children at bedtime.
The Scar
A little boy invited his mother to attend his elementary 1 school s first teacher-parent conference 2. To the little boy s dismay, buy airblown christmas she said she would go. This would be the first time that his classmates and teacher met his mother and he was embarrassed by her appearance. Although she was a beautiful woman, there was a severe scar that covered nearly the entire 3 right side of her face. The boy never wanted to talk about why or how she got the scar.
At the conference, the people were impressed by the kindness and natural beauty of his mother despite the scar, but the little boy was still embarrassed and hid himself from everyone. He did, however, get within earshot 4 of a conversation between his mother and his teacher, and heard them speaking.
The mother replied, "When my son was a baby, he was in a room that caught on fire 5. Everyone was too afraid to go in because the fire was out of control, so I went in. As I was running toward his crib 6, I saw a beam coming down and I placed myself over him trying to protect him. I was knocked unconscious7 but fortunately, a fireman came in and saved both of us." She touched the burned side of her face. "This scar will be permanent 8, but to this day, I have never regretted doing what I did."
At this point9, the little boy came out running towards his mother with tears in his eyes. He hugged her and felt an overwhelming10 sense of the sacrifice that his mother had made for him. He held her hand tightly for the rest of the day.
At the conference, the people were impressed by the kindness and natural beauty of his mother despite the scar, but the little boy was still embarrassed and hid himself from everyone. He did, however, get within earshot 4 of a conversation between his mother and his teacher, and heard them speaking.
The mother replied, "When my son was a baby, he was in a room that caught on fire 5. Everyone was too afraid to go in because the fire was out of control, so I went in. As I was running toward his crib 6, I saw a beam coming down and I placed myself over him trying to protect him. I was knocked unconscious7 but fortunately, a fireman came in and saved both of us." She touched the burned side of her face. "This scar will be permanent 8, but to this day, I have never regretted doing what I did."
At this point9, the little boy came out running towards his mother with tears in his eyes. He hugged her and felt an overwhelming10 sense of the sacrifice that his mother had made for him. He held her hand tightly for the rest of the day.
M-O-T-H-E-R
M - O - T - H - E - R yard Inflatable Advertising
"M" is for the million things she gave me,
"O" means only that she's growing old,
"T" is for the tears she shed to save me,
"H" is for her heart of purest gold;
"E" is for her eyes, with love-light shining,
"R" means right, and right she'll always be,
Put them all together, they spell
"MOTHER,"
A word that means the world to me.
"M" is for the million things she gave me,
"O" means only that she's growing old,
"T" is for the tears she shed to save me,
"H" is for her heart of purest gold;
"E" is for her eyes, with love-light shining,
"R" means right, and right she'll always be,
Put them all together, they spell
"MOTHER,"
A word that means the world to me.
A Sandpiper To Bring You Joy
She was six years old when I first met her on the beach near where I live. I drive to this beach, a distance of three or four miles,custom Inflatable Toys whenever the world begins to close in on me. She was building a sandcastle or something and looked up, her eyes as blue as the sea.
"Hello," she said. I answered with a nod, not really in the mood to bother with a small child. "I'm building," she said.
"I see that. What is it?" I asked, not caring.
"Oh, I don't know, I just like the feel of sand.
"That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my shoes. A sandpiper glided by.
"That's a joy," the child said.
"It's a what?"
"It's a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy." The bird went glissading down the beach. "Good-bye joy," I muttered to myself, "hello pain," and turned to walk on. I was depressed; my life seemed completely out of balance.
"What's your name?" She wouldn't give up.
"Ruth," I answered. "I'm Ruth Peterson."
"Mine's Wendy... I'm six."
"Hi, Wendy."
She giggled. "You're funny," she said. In spite of my gloom I laughed too and walked on. Her musical giggle followed me.
"Come again, Mrs. P," she called. "We'll have another happy day."
The days and weeks that followed belong to others: a group of unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, and ailing mother. The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out of the dishwater. "I need a sandpiper," I said to myself, gathering up my coat. The ever-changing balm of the seashore awaited me.
The breeze was chilly, but I strode along, trying to recapture the serenity I needed. I had forgotten the child and was startled when she appeared.
"Hello, Mrs. P," she said. "Do you want to play?"
"What did you have in mind?" I asked, with a twinge of annoyance.
"I don't know, you say."
"How about charades?" I asked sarcastically.
The tinkling laughter burst forth again. "I don't know what that is."
"Then let's just walk." Looking at her, I noticed the delicate fairness
of her face. "Where do you live?" I asked.
"Over there." She pointed toward a row of summer cottages. Strange, I thought, in winter.
"Where do you go to school?"
"I don't go to school. Mommy says we're on vacation." She chattered little girl talk as we strolled up the beach, but my mind was on other things. When I left for home, Wendy said it had been a happy day.
Feeling surprisingly better, I smiled at her and agreed. Three weeks later, I rushed to my beach in a state of near panic. I was in no mood to even greet Wendy. I thought I saw her mother on the porch and felt like demanding she keep her child at home.
"Look, if you don't mind," I said crossly when Wendy caught up with me, "I'd rather be alone today."
She seems unusually pale and out of breath.
"Why?" she asked.
I turned to her and shouted, "Because my mother died!" and thought, my God, why was I saying this to a little child?
"Oh," she said quietly, "then this is a bad day."
"Yes, and yesterday and the day before and-oh, go away!"
"Did it hurt? "
"Did what hurt?" I was exasperated with her, with myself.
"When she died?" "Of course it hurt!" I snapped, misunderstanding, wrapped up in myself. I strode off.
A month or so after that, when I next went to the beach, she wasn't there. Feeling guilty, ashamed and admitting to myself I missed her, I went up to the cottage after my walk and knocked at the door. A drawn looking young woman with honey-colored hair opened the door.
"Hello," I said. "I'm Ruth Peterson. I missed your little girl today and wondered where she was."
"Oh yes, Mrs. Peterson, please come in" "Wendy talked of you so much.
I'm afraid I allowed her to bother you. If she was a nuisance, please, accept my apologies."
"Not at all-she's a delightful child," I said, suddenly realizing that I meant it. "Where is she?"
"Wendy died last week, Mrs. Peterson. She had leukemia. Maybe she didn't tell you." Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. My breath caught.
"She loved this beach; so when she asked to come, we couldn't say no.
She seemed so much better here and had a lot of what she called happy days. But the last few weeks, she declined rapidly..." her voice faltered.
"Hello," she said. I answered with a nod, not really in the mood to bother with a small child. "I'm building," she said.
"I see that. What is it?" I asked, not caring.
"Oh, I don't know, I just like the feel of sand.
"That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my shoes. A sandpiper glided by.
"That's a joy," the child said.
"It's a what?"
"It's a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy." The bird went glissading down the beach. "Good-bye joy," I muttered to myself, "hello pain," and turned to walk on. I was depressed; my life seemed completely out of balance.
"What's your name?" She wouldn't give up.
"Ruth," I answered. "I'm Ruth Peterson."
"Mine's Wendy... I'm six."
"Hi, Wendy."
She giggled. "You're funny," she said. In spite of my gloom I laughed too and walked on. Her musical giggle followed me.
"Come again, Mrs. P," she called. "We'll have another happy day."
The days and weeks that followed belong to others: a group of unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, and ailing mother. The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out of the dishwater. "I need a sandpiper," I said to myself, gathering up my coat. The ever-changing balm of the seashore awaited me.
The breeze was chilly, but I strode along, trying to recapture the serenity I needed. I had forgotten the child and was startled when she appeared.
"Hello, Mrs. P," she said. "Do you want to play?"
"What did you have in mind?" I asked, with a twinge of annoyance.
"I don't know, you say."
"How about charades?" I asked sarcastically.
The tinkling laughter burst forth again. "I don't know what that is."
"Then let's just walk." Looking at her, I noticed the delicate fairness
of her face. "Where do you live?" I asked.
"Over there." She pointed toward a row of summer cottages. Strange, I thought, in winter.
"Where do you go to school?"
"I don't go to school. Mommy says we're on vacation." She chattered little girl talk as we strolled up the beach, but my mind was on other things. When I left for home, Wendy said it had been a happy day.
Feeling surprisingly better, I smiled at her and agreed. Three weeks later, I rushed to my beach in a state of near panic. I was in no mood to even greet Wendy. I thought I saw her mother on the porch and felt like demanding she keep her child at home.
"Look, if you don't mind," I said crossly when Wendy caught up with me, "I'd rather be alone today."
She seems unusually pale and out of breath.
"Why?" she asked.
I turned to her and shouted, "Because my mother died!" and thought, my God, why was I saying this to a little child?
"Oh," she said quietly, "then this is a bad day."
"Yes, and yesterday and the day before and-oh, go away!"
"Did it hurt? "
"Did what hurt?" I was exasperated with her, with myself.
"When she died?" "Of course it hurt!" I snapped, misunderstanding, wrapped up in myself. I strode off.
A month or so after that, when I next went to the beach, she wasn't there. Feeling guilty, ashamed and admitting to myself I missed her, I went up to the cottage after my walk and knocked at the door. A drawn looking young woman with honey-colored hair opened the door.
"Hello," I said. "I'm Ruth Peterson. I missed your little girl today and wondered where she was."
"Oh yes, Mrs. Peterson, please come in" "Wendy talked of you so much.
I'm afraid I allowed her to bother you. If she was a nuisance, please, accept my apologies."
"Not at all-she's a delightful child," I said, suddenly realizing that I meant it. "Where is she?"
"Wendy died last week, Mrs. Peterson. She had leukemia. Maybe she didn't tell you." Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. My breath caught.
"She loved this beach; so when she asked to come, we couldn't say no.
She seemed so much better here and had a lot of what she called happy days. But the last few weeks, she declined rapidly..." her voice faltered.
2009年12月3日星期四
Suburbanization
If by "suburb" is meant an urban margin that grows more rapidly than its already developed interior, the process of suburbanization began during the emergence of the industrial city in the second quarter of the nineteenth century.house Disney Princess Combo Before that period the city was a small highly compact cluster in which people moved about on foot and goods were conveyed by horse and cart. But the early factories built in the 1840's were located along waterways and near railheads at the edges of cities, and housing was needed for the thousands of people drawn by the prospect of employment. In time, the factories were surrounded by proliferating mill towns of apartments and row houses that abutted the older, main cities. As a defense against this encroachment and to enlarge their tax bases, the cities appropriated their industrial neighbors. In 1854, for example, the city of Philadelphia annexed most of Philadelphia County. Similar municipal maneuvers took place in Chicago and in New York. Indeed, most great cities of the United States achieved such status only by incorporating the communities along their borders.
With the acceleration of industrial growth came acute urban crowding and accompanying social stress-conditions that began to approach disastrous proportions when, in 1888, the first commercially successful electric traction line was developed. Within a few years the horse-drawn trolleys were retired and electric streetcar networks crisscrossed and connected every major urban area, fostering a wave of suburbanization that transformed the compact industrial city into a dispersed metropolis. This first phase of mass-scale suburbanization was reinforced by the simultaneous emergence of the urban Middle Class, whose desires for homeownership in neighborhoods far from the aging inner city were satisfied by the developers of single-family housing tracts.
With the acceleration of industrial growth came acute urban crowding and accompanying social stress-conditions that began to approach disastrous proportions when, in 1888, the first commercially successful electric traction line was developed. Within a few years the horse-drawn trolleys were retired and electric streetcar networks crisscrossed and connected every major urban area, fostering a wave of suburbanization that transformed the compact industrial city into a dispersed metropolis. This first phase of mass-scale suburbanization was reinforced by the simultaneous emergence of the urban Middle Class, whose desires for homeownership in neighborhoods far from the aging inner city were satisfied by the developers of single-family housing tracts.
Keep Your Direction
What would you do if you failed? giant Inflatable Santa Claus Many people may choose to give up. However, the surest way to success is to keep your direction and stick to your goal.
On your way to success, you must keep your direction. It is just like a lamp, guiding you in darkness and helping you overcome obstacles on your way. Otherwise, you will easily get lost or hesitate to go ahead.
Direction means objectives. You can get nowhere without an objective in life.
You can try to write your objective on paper and make some plans to achieve it. In this way, you will know how to arrange your time and to spend your time properly. And you should also have a belief that you are sure to succeed as long as you keep your direction all the time.
On your way to success, you must keep your direction. It is just like a lamp, guiding you in darkness and helping you overcome obstacles on your way. Otherwise, you will easily get lost or hesitate to go ahead.
Direction means objectives. You can get nowhere without an objective in life.
You can try to write your objective on paper and make some plans to achieve it. In this way, you will know how to arrange your time and to spend your time properly. And you should also have a belief that you are sure to succeed as long as you keep your direction all the time.
Butterfly Lovers
As the story of Romeo and Juliet is known throughout western countries both to the old and young, a fairy tale of Liang Shanbo and Zhu Yingtai, commercial inflatable christmas also a story of tragic love, was handed down through generations in China. The story of Liang-Zhu is still considered as the best illustrations of true love by Chinese people. Nowadays, among various expressions of this classic story, the most popular art form may be the violin concerto "Liang-Zhu", composed by He Zhanhao and Chen Gang in 1950s, which is also deemed to be one of the most successful music accomplishments in Chinese modern history.
Like most myths, this story has more than one version. And nobody knows when did it take place exactly. But, never had this prevented wonderful stories from spreading widely. Now, even some foreigners have become interested in the story of "Oriental Romeo and Juliet".
Zhu Yingtai was born in a wealthy squire family in Shangyu county, east China Zhejiang province. When the girl grew up, she became beautiful, smart and sometimes wilful, as she was the only child in the family. The father loved her very much. He chose many suitors for her; however, none of the candidates could touch the girl's heart. Zhu had an idea. She put forward to attend a school and then find an ideal man to marry by herself. Her father thought it as nonsense at first, for at that time, attending school was exclusively for boys. Nevertheless, he agreed after her continuous entreating.
Then Zhu disguised herself as a boy and changed her name as Zhu Jiuguan (usually a boy's name). During her traveling to the famous Yixing Shanquan Mountain Academy, Zhu got acquainted with a young scholar, Liang Shanbo, who was both talented and virtuous. Fortunately, Liang was also to go to the famous academy, where they both enrolled as students. Liang and Zhu studied in the same room and lived under the same roof. They treated each other like brothers. They had three years of merry life before Zhu received a letter from her father one day. She had to go back home, for she was told in the letter her father's got ill seriously. But this was a shell game for her.
Zhu tried to show her tenderness and love by all kinds of ways to Liang during he was seeing her off for a distance as long as 18 li (Chinese unit of distance, a very long way). But Liang was too dull to realize anything, as he had never doubted that Zhu is a boy. This is one of the most vivid description of the story, known as "18 li seeing off" to Chinese people. Arriving at home, Zhu found her father was not ill at all. He had engaged her to a son of a rich family. This time Zhu's objections became pale and helpless. When Liang became aware of Zhu, actually, was a girl and he had been fallen in love with her so deeply, he was filled with grief and regret, and then died after months, with a final request of burying him at the foot of Qingdao Mountain.
Zhu decided to marry the man she'd never known about, for she had to obey his father and the feudalism. When her bridal procession passed by Qingdao Mountain on its way to the bridegroom's house, there was a sudden tornado, and they were forced to stop. Zhu stepped down her bridal sedan chair and wept bitterly in front of Liang's grave. Suddenly the grave split, she stepped into it. Then it became shinning and peace. Two exquisite butterflies were dancing above the grave. People saw them flying off into the distance, never part from each other.
Like most myths, this story has more than one version. And nobody knows when did it take place exactly. But, never had this prevented wonderful stories from spreading widely. Now, even some foreigners have become interested in the story of "Oriental Romeo and Juliet".
Zhu Yingtai was born in a wealthy squire family in Shangyu county, east China Zhejiang province. When the girl grew up, she became beautiful, smart and sometimes wilful, as she was the only child in the family. The father loved her very much. He chose many suitors for her; however, none of the candidates could touch the girl's heart. Zhu had an idea. She put forward to attend a school and then find an ideal man to marry by herself. Her father thought it as nonsense at first, for at that time, attending school was exclusively for boys. Nevertheless, he agreed after her continuous entreating.
Then Zhu disguised herself as a boy and changed her name as Zhu Jiuguan (usually a boy's name). During her traveling to the famous Yixing Shanquan Mountain Academy, Zhu got acquainted with a young scholar, Liang Shanbo, who was both talented and virtuous. Fortunately, Liang was also to go to the famous academy, where they both enrolled as students. Liang and Zhu studied in the same room and lived under the same roof. They treated each other like brothers. They had three years of merry life before Zhu received a letter from her father one day. She had to go back home, for she was told in the letter her father's got ill seriously. But this was a shell game for her.
Zhu tried to show her tenderness and love by all kinds of ways to Liang during he was seeing her off for a distance as long as 18 li (Chinese unit of distance, a very long way). But Liang was too dull to realize anything, as he had never doubted that Zhu is a boy. This is one of the most vivid description of the story, known as "18 li seeing off" to Chinese people. Arriving at home, Zhu found her father was not ill at all. He had engaged her to a son of a rich family. This time Zhu's objections became pale and helpless. When Liang became aware of Zhu, actually, was a girl and he had been fallen in love with her so deeply, he was filled with grief and regret, and then died after months, with a final request of burying him at the foot of Qingdao Mountain.
Zhu decided to marry the man she'd never known about, for she had to obey his father and the feudalism. When her bridal procession passed by Qingdao Mountain on its way to the bridegroom's house, there was a sudden tornado, and they were forced to stop. Zhu stepped down her bridal sedan chair and wept bitterly in front of Liang's grave. Suddenly the grave split, she stepped into it. Then it became shinning and peace. Two exquisite butterflies were dancing above the grave. People saw them flying off into the distance, never part from each other.
Modern American Universities
Before the 1850's, the United States had a number of small colleges, most of them dating from colonial days. They were small, church connected institutions whose primary concern was to shape the moral character of their students.
Throughout Europe,sale Inflatable Arch institutions of higher learning had developed, bearing the ancient name of university. In German university was concerned primarily with creating and spreading knowledge, not morals. Between mid-century and the end of the 1800's, more than nine thousand young Americans, dissatisfied with their training at home, went to Germany for advanced study. Some of them return to become presidents of venerable colleges-----Harvard, Yale, Columbia---and transform them into modern universities. The new presidents broke all ties with the churches and brought in a new kind of faculty. Professors were hired for their knowledge of a subject, not because they were of the proper faith and had a strong arm for disciplining students. The new principle was that a university was to create knowledge as well as pass it on, and this called for a faculty composed of teacher-scholars. Drilling and learning by rote were replaced by the German method of lecturing, in which the professor's own research was presented in class. Graduate training leading to the Ph.D., an ancient German degree signifying the highest level of advanced scholarly attainment, was introduced. With the establishment of the seminar system, graduate student learned to question, analyze, and conduct their own research.
At the same time, the new university greatly expanded in size and course offerings, breaking completely out of the old, constricted curriculum of mathematics, classics, rhetoric, and music. The president of Harvard pioneered the elective system, by which students were able to choose their own course of study. The notion of major fields of study emerged. The new goal was to make the university relevant to the real pursuits of the world. Paying close heed to the practical needs of society, the new universities trained men and women to work at its tasks, with engineering students being the most characteristic of the new regime. Students were also trained as economists, architects, agriculturalists, social welfare workers, and teachers.
Throughout Europe,sale Inflatable Arch institutions of higher learning had developed, bearing the ancient name of university. In German university was concerned primarily with creating and spreading knowledge, not morals. Between mid-century and the end of the 1800's, more than nine thousand young Americans, dissatisfied with their training at home, went to Germany for advanced study. Some of them return to become presidents of venerable colleges-----Harvard, Yale, Columbia---and transform them into modern universities. The new presidents broke all ties with the churches and brought in a new kind of faculty. Professors were hired for their knowledge of a subject, not because they were of the proper faith and had a strong arm for disciplining students. The new principle was that a university was to create knowledge as well as pass it on, and this called for a faculty composed of teacher-scholars. Drilling and learning by rote were replaced by the German method of lecturing, in which the professor's own research was presented in class. Graduate training leading to the Ph.D., an ancient German degree signifying the highest level of advanced scholarly attainment, was introduced. With the establishment of the seminar system, graduate student learned to question, analyze, and conduct their own research.
At the same time, the new university greatly expanded in size and course offerings, breaking completely out of the old, constricted curriculum of mathematics, classics, rhetoric, and music. The president of Harvard pioneered the elective system, by which students were able to choose their own course of study. The notion of major fields of study emerged. The new goal was to make the university relevant to the real pursuits of the world. Paying close heed to the practical needs of society, the new universities trained men and women to work at its tasks, with engineering students being the most characteristic of the new regime. Students were also trained as economists, architects, agriculturalists, social welfare workers, and teachers.
Skyscrapers and Environment
In the late 1960's,adult Inflatable Slide many people in North America turned their attention to environmental problems, and new steel-and-glass skyscrapers were widely criticized. Ecologists pointed out that a cluster of tall buildings in a city often overburdens public transportation and parking lot capacities.
Skyscrapers are also lavish consumers, and wasters, of electric power. In one recent year, the addition of 17 million square feet of skyscraper office space in New York City raised the peak daily demand for electricity by 120, 000 kilowatts-enough to supply the entire city of Albany, New York, for a day.
Glass-walled skyscrapers can be especially wasteful. The heat loss (or gain)through a wall of half-inch plate glass is more than ten times that through a typical masonry wall filled with insulation board. To lessen the strain on heating and air-conditioning equipment, builders of skyscrapers have begun to use double-glazed panels of glass, and reflective glasses coated with silver or gold mirror films that reduce glare as well as heat gain. However, mirror-walled skyscrapers raise the temperature of the surrounding air and affect neighboring buildings.
Skyscrapers put a severe strain on a city's sanitation facilities, too. If fully occupied, the two World Trade Center towers in New York City would alone generate 2.25 million gallons of raw sewage each year-as much as a city the size of Stanford, Connecticut , which has a population of more than 109, 000.
Skyscrapers are also lavish consumers, and wasters, of electric power. In one recent year, the addition of 17 million square feet of skyscraper office space in New York City raised the peak daily demand for electricity by 120, 000 kilowatts-enough to supply the entire city of Albany, New York, for a day.
Glass-walled skyscrapers can be especially wasteful. The heat loss (or gain)through a wall of half-inch plate glass is more than ten times that through a typical masonry wall filled with insulation board. To lessen the strain on heating and air-conditioning equipment, builders of skyscrapers have begun to use double-glazed panels of glass, and reflective glasses coated with silver or gold mirror films that reduce glare as well as heat gain. However, mirror-walled skyscrapers raise the temperature of the surrounding air and affect neighboring buildings.
Skyscrapers put a severe strain on a city's sanitation facilities, too. If fully occupied, the two World Trade Center towers in New York City would alone generate 2.25 million gallons of raw sewage each year-as much as a city the size of Stanford, Connecticut , which has a population of more than 109, 000.
2009年12月2日星期三
Fragrance Forever
THE SMELL of wood, refreshingly sweet, greeted me even before I sat down at the round table. As if breathing along with the trees, manufacturer Sumo Wrestling Suits I felt a simple, primitive joy when admiring those furniture and home articles shaped and carved out of cedar in the heritage museum village of San Antonio, an old-time riverside town down south in the United States.
The craftsman, Arnold, came from a family of carpenters. As a Vietnam War veteran, he related to me, a visitor from Asia, how he had fought against the Vietcong guerrillas in the jungle.
His dearest memory, he said, was that of a medley of tropical smells of the rain forest, in which he had to move with the utmost caution, trembling with fear that the lurking enemy would attack from anywhere, any moment. What calmed him down, he recalled, was the fragrance of wood as he, holding his rifle, was lying prone against the trunk of a large tree, sticking himself to the coarse bark.
After the war, Arnold started to live by working on wood, like his ancestors. Among his finest carpentry works was a rocking-chair, in which his daughter was now seated, reading. I picked out a tube-shaped pot with a lid. Chiselled out of a block, the objet d'art well preserved the material's colour in various shades, the clear annual rings, the original cracks and nodes -- what a reminder of the mystique of life!
The craftsman, Arnold, came from a family of carpenters. As a Vietnam War veteran, he related to me, a visitor from Asia, how he had fought against the Vietcong guerrillas in the jungle.
His dearest memory, he said, was that of a medley of tropical smells of the rain forest, in which he had to move with the utmost caution, trembling with fear that the lurking enemy would attack from anywhere, any moment. What calmed him down, he recalled, was the fragrance of wood as he, holding his rifle, was lying prone against the trunk of a large tree, sticking himself to the coarse bark.
After the war, Arnold started to live by working on wood, like his ancestors. Among his finest carpentry works was a rocking-chair, in which his daughter was now seated, reading. I picked out a tube-shaped pot with a lid. Chiselled out of a block, the objet d'art well preserved the material's colour in various shades, the clear annual rings, the original cracks and nodes -- what a reminder of the mystique of life!
When is a room not a room?
There was a bit of a fuss at Tate Britain the other day. A woman was hurrying through the large room that houses Lights Going On and Off in a Gallery, Martin Creed's Turner prize-shortlisted installation in which, yes, lights go on and off in a gallery. manufacturer Inflatable Christmas Suddenly the woman's necklace broke and the beads spilled over the floor. As we bent down to pick them up, one man said: "Perhaps this is part of the installation." Another replied: "Surely that would make it performance art rather than an installation." "Or a happening," said a third.
These are confusing times for Britain's growing audience for visual art. Even one of Creed's friends recently contacted a newspaper diarist to say that he had visited three galleries at which Creed's work was on show but had not managed to find the artworks. If he can't find them, what chance have we got?
More and more of London's gallery space is devoted to installations. London is no longer a city, but a vast art puzzle. Next to Creed's flashing room is Mike Nelson's installation consisting of an illusionistic labyrinth that seems to lead to a dusty Tate storeroom. It's the security guards I feel sorry for, stuck in a faux back room fielding tricky questions about the aesthetic merits of conceptual art simulacra and helping people with low blood sugar find the way out.
Every London postcode has its installation artist. In SW6 Luca Vitoni has created a small wooden box with grass on the ceiling and blue sky on the floor. Visitors can enhance the experience with free yoga sessions. In W2 the Serpentine Gallery has commissioned Doug Aitken to redesign its space as a sequence of dark, carpeted rooms with dramatic filmed images of icy landscapes, waterfalls and bored subway passengers miraculously swinging like gymnasts around a cross-like arrangement of four video screens. The gallery used to be stables, you know. Not to be outdone, in SE1 Tate Modern has a wonderful installation by Juan Munoz.
At the launch of this year's Turner prize show, a disgruntled painter suggested that the ice cream van that parks outside the Tate should have been shortlisted. This is a particularly stupid idea. Where would we get our ice creams from then?
What we need is the answer to three simple questions. What is installation art? Why has it become so ubiquitous? And why is it so bloody irritating?
First question first. What are installations? "Installations," answers the Thames and Hudson Dictionary of Art and Artists with misplaced self-confidence, "only exist as long as they are installed." Thanks for that. This presumably means that if the ice cream van man took the handbrake off his installation Van No1, it wouldn't be an installation any more.
The dictionary continues more promisingly: installations are "multi-media, multi-dimensional and multi-form works which are created temporarily for a particular space or site either outdoors or indoors, in a museum or gallery."
As a first stab at a definition, this isn't bad. It rules out paintings, sculptures, frescoes and other intuitively non-installational artworks. It also says that anything can be an installation so long as it has art status conferred on it (your flashing bulb is not art because it hasn't got the nod from the gallery, so don't bother writing a "funny" letter to the paper suggesting it is). The important question is not "what is art?" but "when is art?"
The only problem is that this definition also leaves out some very good installations. Consider Richard Wilson's 20:50. It consists of a lake of sump oil that uncannily reflects the ceiling of the gallery. Spectators penetrate this lake by walking along an enclosed jetty whose waist-high walls hold the oil at bay. This 1987 work was originally set up in Matt's Gallery in east London, through whose windows one could see a bleak post-industrial landscape while standing on the jetty. The installation, awash in old engine oil, could thus be taken as a comment on Thatcherite destruction of manufacturing industries. Then something very interesting happened. Thatcher's ad man Charles Saatchi put 20:50 in his windowless gallery in west London, depriving it of its context. But the Thames and Hudson definition does not allow that this 20:50 is an installation because it wasn't created for that space. This is silly: it would be better to say there were two installations - the one at Matt's and the other at the Saatchi Gallery.
Or think about Damien Hirst's In and Out of Love. In this 1991 installation, butterfly cocoons were attached to large white canvases. Heat from radiators below the cocoons encouraged them to hatch and flourish briefly. In a separate room, butterflies were embalmed on brightly coloured canvases, their wings weighed down by paint. The spectator needed to move around to appreciate the full impact of the work. Unlike looking at paintings or sculptures, you often need to move through or around installations.
What these two examples suggest to me is that we are barking up the wrong tree by trying to define installations. Installations do not all share a set of essential characteristics. Some will demand audience participation, some will be site-specific, some conceptual gags involving only a light bulb.
Installations, then, are a big, confusing family. Which brings us to the second question. Why are there so many of them around at the moment? There have been installations since Marcel Duchamp put a urinal in a New York gallery in 1917 and called it art. This was the most resonant gesture in 20th century art, discrediting notions of taste, skill and craftsmanship, and suggesting that everyone could be an artist. Futurists, Dadaists and surrealists all made installations. In the 1960s, conceptualists, minimalists and quite possibly maximalists did too. Why so many installations now? After all, two of this year's four Turner prize candidates are installation artists.
American critic Hal Foster thinks he knows why installations are everywhere in modern art. He reckons that the key transformation in Western art since the 1960s has been a shift from what he calls a "vertical" conception to a "horizontal" one. Before then, painters were interested in painting, exploring their medium to its limits. They were vertical. Artists are now less interested in pushing a form as far as it will go, and more in using their work as a terrain on which to evoke feelings or provoke reactions.
"Many artists and critics treat conditions like desire or disease as sites for art," writes Foster. True, photography, painting or sculpture can do the same, but installations have proved most fruitful - perhaps because with installations the formalist weight of the past doesn't bear down so heavily and the artist can more easily explore what concerns them.
Why are installations so bloody irritating, then? Perhaps because in the many cases when craftsmanship is removed, art seems like the emperor's new clothes. Perhaps also because artists are frequently so bound up with the intellectual ramifications of the history of art and the cataclysm of isms, that those who are not steeped in them don't care or understand. But, ultimately, because being irritating need not be a bad thing for a work of art since at least it compels engagement from the viewer.
But irritation isn't the whole story. I don't necessarily understand or like all installation art, but I was moved by Double Bind, Juan Munoz's huge work at Tate Modern. A false mezzanine floor in the turbine hall is full of holes, some real, some trompe l'oeil and a pair of lifts chillingly lit and going up and down, heading nowhere. To get the full impact, and to go beyond mere illusionism, you need to go downstairs and look up through the holes. There are grey men living in rooms between the floorboards, installations within this installation. It's creepy and beautiful and strange, but you need to make an effort to get something out of it.
The same is true for Martin Creed's Lights Going On and Off, though I didn't find it very illuminating. "My work," says Martin Creed, "is about 50% what I make of it and 50% what people make of it. Meanings are made in people's heads - I can't control them."
These are confusing times for Britain's growing audience for visual art. Even one of Creed's friends recently contacted a newspaper diarist to say that he had visited three galleries at which Creed's work was on show but had not managed to find the artworks. If he can't find them, what chance have we got?
More and more of London's gallery space is devoted to installations. London is no longer a city, but a vast art puzzle. Next to Creed's flashing room is Mike Nelson's installation consisting of an illusionistic labyrinth that seems to lead to a dusty Tate storeroom. It's the security guards I feel sorry for, stuck in a faux back room fielding tricky questions about the aesthetic merits of conceptual art simulacra and helping people with low blood sugar find the way out.
Every London postcode has its installation artist. In SW6 Luca Vitoni has created a small wooden box with grass on the ceiling and blue sky on the floor. Visitors can enhance the experience with free yoga sessions. In W2 the Serpentine Gallery has commissioned Doug Aitken to redesign its space as a sequence of dark, carpeted rooms with dramatic filmed images of icy landscapes, waterfalls and bored subway passengers miraculously swinging like gymnasts around a cross-like arrangement of four video screens. The gallery used to be stables, you know. Not to be outdone, in SE1 Tate Modern has a wonderful installation by Juan Munoz.
At the launch of this year's Turner prize show, a disgruntled painter suggested that the ice cream van that parks outside the Tate should have been shortlisted. This is a particularly stupid idea. Where would we get our ice creams from then?
What we need is the answer to three simple questions. What is installation art? Why has it become so ubiquitous? And why is it so bloody irritating?
First question first. What are installations? "Installations," answers the Thames and Hudson Dictionary of Art and Artists with misplaced self-confidence, "only exist as long as they are installed." Thanks for that. This presumably means that if the ice cream van man took the handbrake off his installation Van No1, it wouldn't be an installation any more.
The dictionary continues more promisingly: installations are "multi-media, multi-dimensional and multi-form works which are created temporarily for a particular space or site either outdoors or indoors, in a museum or gallery."
As a first stab at a definition, this isn't bad. It rules out paintings, sculptures, frescoes and other intuitively non-installational artworks. It also says that anything can be an installation so long as it has art status conferred on it (your flashing bulb is not art because it hasn't got the nod from the gallery, so don't bother writing a "funny" letter to the paper suggesting it is). The important question is not "what is art?" but "when is art?"
The only problem is that this definition also leaves out some very good installations. Consider Richard Wilson's 20:50. It consists of a lake of sump oil that uncannily reflects the ceiling of the gallery. Spectators penetrate this lake by walking along an enclosed jetty whose waist-high walls hold the oil at bay. This 1987 work was originally set up in Matt's Gallery in east London, through whose windows one could see a bleak post-industrial landscape while standing on the jetty. The installation, awash in old engine oil, could thus be taken as a comment on Thatcherite destruction of manufacturing industries. Then something very interesting happened. Thatcher's ad man Charles Saatchi put 20:50 in his windowless gallery in west London, depriving it of its context. But the Thames and Hudson definition does not allow that this 20:50 is an installation because it wasn't created for that space. This is silly: it would be better to say there were two installations - the one at Matt's and the other at the Saatchi Gallery.
Or think about Damien Hirst's In and Out of Love. In this 1991 installation, butterfly cocoons were attached to large white canvases. Heat from radiators below the cocoons encouraged them to hatch and flourish briefly. In a separate room, butterflies were embalmed on brightly coloured canvases, their wings weighed down by paint. The spectator needed to move around to appreciate the full impact of the work. Unlike looking at paintings or sculptures, you often need to move through or around installations.
What these two examples suggest to me is that we are barking up the wrong tree by trying to define installations. Installations do not all share a set of essential characteristics. Some will demand audience participation, some will be site-specific, some conceptual gags involving only a light bulb.
Installations, then, are a big, confusing family. Which brings us to the second question. Why are there so many of them around at the moment? There have been installations since Marcel Duchamp put a urinal in a New York gallery in 1917 and called it art. This was the most resonant gesture in 20th century art, discrediting notions of taste, skill and craftsmanship, and suggesting that everyone could be an artist. Futurists, Dadaists and surrealists all made installations. In the 1960s, conceptualists, minimalists and quite possibly maximalists did too. Why so many installations now? After all, two of this year's four Turner prize candidates are installation artists.
American critic Hal Foster thinks he knows why installations are everywhere in modern art. He reckons that the key transformation in Western art since the 1960s has been a shift from what he calls a "vertical" conception to a "horizontal" one. Before then, painters were interested in painting, exploring their medium to its limits. They were vertical. Artists are now less interested in pushing a form as far as it will go, and more in using their work as a terrain on which to evoke feelings or provoke reactions.
"Many artists and critics treat conditions like desire or disease as sites for art," writes Foster. True, photography, painting or sculpture can do the same, but installations have proved most fruitful - perhaps because with installations the formalist weight of the past doesn't bear down so heavily and the artist can more easily explore what concerns them.
Why are installations so bloody irritating, then? Perhaps because in the many cases when craftsmanship is removed, art seems like the emperor's new clothes. Perhaps also because artists are frequently so bound up with the intellectual ramifications of the history of art and the cataclysm of isms, that those who are not steeped in them don't care or understand. But, ultimately, because being irritating need not be a bad thing for a work of art since at least it compels engagement from the viewer.
But irritation isn't the whole story. I don't necessarily understand or like all installation art, but I was moved by Double Bind, Juan Munoz's huge work at Tate Modern. A false mezzanine floor in the turbine hall is full of holes, some real, some trompe l'oeil and a pair of lifts chillingly lit and going up and down, heading nowhere. To get the full impact, and to go beyond mere illusionism, you need to go downstairs and look up through the holes. There are grey men living in rooms between the floorboards, installations within this installation. It's creepy and beautiful and strange, but you need to make an effort to get something out of it.
The same is true for Martin Creed's Lights Going On and Off, though I didn't find it very illuminating. "My work," says Martin Creed, "is about 50% what I make of it and 50% what people make of it. Meanings are made in people's heads - I can't control them."
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