LINK: October Issue 2014

Editorial Foreword Until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.

- Anatole France The quote above seems rather unbefitting to appear in this issue of LINK—rather it looks like something that should appear in a pet lovers’ magazine, advocating the positive spirit of keeping a pet. As a former pet owner, there is no doubt animals ‘awaken’ us, in the sense they let us feel the vibrancy of life; but as I begin to experience different facets of life, I see something much darker in the quote.

There is an undeniable link between animals and humans, and very often we compare the two, uttering complaints like ‘I wish I were a cat, sleeping all-day long’. These comparisons inevitably made me cogitate upon the more spiritual differences between them. Having read books like Lord of the Flies and Heart of Darkness, I could not help but notice the innocence of animals and the corruptness of human. Animals kill to survive; humans kill not just to survive, but as a means of pleasure. Killing may be seem too distant in our everyday environment (on second thought, it isn’t, considering the interminable wars), but the inherent sins, like selfishness, greed, lust etc. run forever in our blood. Scientists may rebut this cynical accusation by pointing out these were mere biological impulses to keep us alive. But perhaps, from a personal view, it is the sophistication and ingenuity of humans which render these sins more overt, more destructive.

I am therefore awakened, in a sense, by animals and their innocence, which humans have already lost. To think humans as innocent creatures, to plant the seed of hope in them, is now unthinkable for me.

Nonetheless, my cynicism should not overshadow this publication.

Awakening can mean a whole array of things, even including the physical act of waking up. To what people is awakening a special event? Figuratively speaking, can waking up symbolise epiphany, the sudden realisation of something important? I hope, through this issue, different interpretations of the theme can be presented to you with the works written by various talented writers.

Editor Timothy Chan Cover Photo by Tony Ma

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Reminiscence Orientation Day

17 August 2014

Orientation Day is the very ďŹ rst event of the Orientation Series, which welcomes freshmen into the university life. On that day we played various activities such as mass games, campus orienteering and night programme. We all had fun and have bonded well with the newcomers.

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1: Group photo 2: Mass game; freshmen had to take photo inside the frame while the frame was moving 3: Campus orienteering; freshmen had to complete dierent tasks on campus

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21-23 August 2014

Orientation Camp

The thrilling Orientation Camp was held under the sweltering heat of August, which could only be compared to our undying passion for fun and games. Most importantly, though, we welcomed the freshmen new to HKU to their new abode for the next 4 to 5 years. Below is a gallery of the fun we had over the three hot and exciting days and nights.

Photography by Tony Ma

1 2 1: Group photo at campsite 2&3: Freshmen playing mass games on campus

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4: A live drama to mark the beginning of the Detective Game 5: A group of freshmen interrogating a character 6: During Sociology Game, freshmen needed to play dierent tasks; shown is the hall task 7: The romance task

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8: Blind walk: freshmen were blindfolded and were required to complete different tasks 9: A group of students demonstrating dance movements during Campfire 10: Sunday Yuen, a talented musician, performed songs related to the ‘five things’ in university 11: Freshmen enjoying the Water Game

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High Table Dinner

Photography by Tony Ma

24 September 2014

High Table Dinner was held in the exquisite and refined environment of Senior Common Room at K. K. Leung Building. Attired in our elegant dresses and suits, robed in the traditional and symbolic green gowns, the evening began with an aura of grandeur. We were honoured to have Dr Gillian Bickley to join us and share with us her special insight and experience on promoting poetry in a Chinese-speaking place. We were most grateful for her poetry collection, Perceptions, which she has given to us in the evening.

Jocelyn Li, External ViceChairperson, and Dr Gillian Bickley

Joining us also were professors from the School of English, including Dr Dirk Noël, Professor Adam Jaworski, Dr Lisa Lim, Dr Adrian Pablé, Dr Jessica R. Valdez and Dr Peter Kennedy. It was our utter honour and pleasure to have them in this lovely evening, who shared with us their experience and lives, and inspired us in many different ways.

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Signing board

All the participants also enjoyed the evening immensely; they had exchanges, both intellectual and personal, with each other and undoubtedly gained much from the conversation.

Souvenir and run-down on the dinning table

Eric Kwan, Chairperson

Many people joined this wonderful event

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10 Features http://www.daycody.com/dawn/

The Thoughts What does the theme Awakening mean to our ExCo? Below let us explore how the theme is interpreted.

Awakening is not something unfamiliar to us; literally, it is the act of waking up from sleep. Awakening occurs when the mind is willing and ready. Awakening cannot be planned; it undergoes a spontaneous occurrence. I have one experience that I regard as an example of awakening.

When I was on a holiday in Taiwan last summer, I went to explore a farmland which was hidden by long grass. Having climbed over a gate, I saw hundreds of sheep dotted on the hills. I had been wandering around, looking at the fields and the sky. There was a shift in my vision, as if someone pressed a switch. I had the realisation of the beauty of world that I had been lacking. This reminded me to slow down the pace and get away from the hustle and bustle of the city.

One is awakened in many occasions: during a holiday, reading a new book, in the middle of a playing music etc. Recently I found that meditation also helps. Consciousness is shifted to a peaceful state when you meditate, in which you can reflect yourself and provoke new thoughts about anything.

- Eric Kwan It has occurred to me more than once that I’d never truly awakened until I began my life in university. Throughout my secondary school I didn’t know what I was doing, although I dreamt of doing better, doing what I want and what I’m capable of, which was the exact opposite of what I was doing then. And I used to think: If only they could untie my legs; if only they could give me a tug in the right direction so I could know where to start.

And I waited until I was given an environment where to try new thing is the norm, where none gets judged for failing and tumbling off the bed. Know that falling sensation one gets before waking up? That was what I felt when I got placed from a conservative, constricted environment to a completely new and different one —one which allowed me to be the better version of myself that I had only encountered in my dreams.

Having the courage, the will to blink open your eyes after a deep slumber— It’s a moment of clarity after odd fragments of ideals, a moment of assembling your dreams together into a map, of knowing what you want, who you want yourself to be, the pull that drags you out of the fog that you’ve been wandering in without ever knowing you were lost. To me, knowing what you want is merely chasing after an ideal in a dream; starting to do what you want is the act of awakening, the first foot sliding off bed and touching solid ground.

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To me, awakening is the awareness of one’s mortality.

Our traditional culture denies death. We are taught to do our best not think about death. It is not a topic for family dinners and remains a taboo for many societies in the world.

But we all know that our lives cannot go on forever.

The sudden news of someone I know passing away startled me and was a call that reminded me of my own mortality and of those closest to me.

One thing that I became conscious of was how I wasted my time caring for the wrong things. I realised how petty my concerns for the future and the past were as it is only the present moment that life takes place in. The reality is now. The past and the future are just thoughts arising from the present. It is only this moment that we truly have.

This awakening gives me an ability to connect with the present and to develop a grateful attitude. Things that were taken for granted are perceived anew. I am grateful just to be alive.

Awakening is the shift in consciousness, the change of attitude and the appreciation of what we already have.

- Vivian Tam

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After having a pleasant nap, you are awake—your eyes are wide open and you have a chance to see the world again. What a brand new day. Everything revives again. Let go of the discontent and quarrels yesterday. What you have to deal with are the things happening today, or in the future, but not those in the past. Keep a sober and clear state of mind and think of your plans—perhaps a checklist of items, or a specific goal for the day, or even as simple as the way to go to school. Staying awake and planning ahead are always what I value at the beginning of a day.

The metaphorical meaning of awakening is actually similar to its literal meaning.

Awakening in that sense refers to having some ideas dawned on you, which may be an influential process for you to arrange, or rearrange, your plans and goals. Before that you may have undergone a period of reflection, or endured a lengthy nightmare.

Despite what you have experienced, no matter good or bad, the predominant element of awakening should be having a clear mind again, perhaps stepping back to look at the great picture, and making up our thoughts with a more rational sense. It may not be a big ‘change’ like what President Obama suggested, but a step to make yourself more confident in deciding our path.

- Yolanda Yau Awakening is a self-realisation, where one notices their own faults in an unforeseen, sudden manner, and often has the will to alter the current situation after going through such epiphany. In my opinion, it is not something we would encounter on a day-to-day basis. It often takes time, experience and reflection to catalyse awakening, which may be a turning point in life to some. We may not experience awakening for a lot of times in our lives, yet it is not the quantity that matters—it is the quality of this particular awakening that counts.

Life is made up of a series of events and experiences, our feelings and attitude. Our reflections towards them determine how far and where these incidents would take us.

And it is through contemplations and experiences that we would be able to understand our inner self more deeply and thoroughly, to understand what truly makes us happy and worth living for, until we finally reach the state of awakening - the state where one realises what they had been chasing after in their previous years are now insignificant, and also where one comprehends what their soul and mind really needs.

I always have this scene in mind whenever I think of awakening: A woman in her mid thirties sitting in an office doing humdrum and repetitive paperwork, when suddenly it struck to her that this has never been what she had wanted to do for the rest of her life. Despite awakening differs from one person to another, they are similar in a sense that a self-realisation is involved.

Awakening often occurs in the most unexpected times. We must not be afraid of making wrong decisions or going through hard times, because it is through challenges and experiences that we would be able to truly understand and communicate with our soul.

- Heidi Pang

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The fact that one is forced to realise the truth is cruel. ‘Awakening’ is the feeling the audience will experience when a magician reveals the trick of the magic in front of them. All the illusions, fantasies and imaginations will be broken at the moment like soap bubbles burst soundlessly and colourlessly in the air.

This is a difficult topic to talk about, so what about listing a resolution I have made after certain degree of ‘awakening’ in the past few months?

Most people live by holding onto mottos, upon friendship, romance, political values— basically anything you believe not to be wrong under any circumstances. My recent discovery is that there is no such thing called ‘universal mottos’ in this wide world. This sounds legitimate but it can be saddening when you realise through the real stories around you. People hold on to different hopes towards life and it is absolutely difficult to find a clone of you. A great portion of us live parallel to each other, so if you happen to intersect with someone you value, do try your best to keep them in touch. At least, this is what I will do.

The process of discovery is not pleasant; it is filled with disappointments, jealousy, anger and frustration. So, I truly wish that the next ‘awakening’ would be a realisation of something beautiful like the radiant fireworks we see in the Disney world.

Unbelievable but true.

To all who have just woken up from their fantasies: May all the pain be champagne, and all sweetness be prolonged.

- April Soo To awaken is to change, to be inspired by new ideas. Every important historic change is a consequence of awakening in some people. People initiated revolutions and reforms because they found the need to break the silence and stand out against the current situation. Examples include the 1911 Revolution in China, countless struggles under the rule of Hitler in Germany and de-colonisation of some South Asian countries.

Personally, I really want to be the one who awakens others, rather than to be awakened by others. People are just too comfortable with their lives. They realise crisis but they’d rather keep on dreaming. I know I am no one, but I am trying to influence others, or even the world. No matter the outcome is great or not, I want to awaken the people with my own effort. I want to be a change-maker. Of course, things would not be ideal. There are people refusing to change , reluctant to be awakened in this chaotic and problematic world. My ultimate goal, perhaps, would be to awaken this group of people so as to achieve a better world.

As a university student, my responsibility is no longer just a study-machine. I am in fact powerful enough to start up things, for people and myself. Currently I am still seeking for the right path, but in the future, I am going to be a better person.

- Cynthia Tang 14 Features

Dreams are too ideal, too distant and unreal while reality is cruel, intolerable and brutal. When one is awakened he or she is forced to face the real world. Yet, for me, I just want to be a sleeping beauty who doesn’t have to be fearful of the outside world since she does not have to be awake from her long-lasting dream. Dream is our utopia in which we do not have to take anything as true. But in reality, if we go one step wrong, the consequences are real.

You may think that dreaming is just to deceive others and oneself. Yet, sometimes I am willing to believe in the beautiful lies instead of admitting the painful truth. Many may think that it is cowardice and it’s just to escape from the reality. As human beings, we are unable to change the unpleasant truths in reality; why not remain in our ideal dream instead of thinking of the sorrow? Sometimes, deceiving myself to enjoy temporary happiness is better than to blame myself all the time. Sometimes, we don’t want to forget; We just put that in our dream, which is the best method to preserve our memory. However, after awakening, everything will vanish like smoke in thin air.

Even though my dream is coming to an end, I still don’t want to be awakened.

However, the wish to believe in my own lies will not last for long. I have no choice but to be awakened and face the real world. In the real world, we have to be rational, dull and we have to pretend. Unlike in our dream, we do not have to pretend anything but become irrational, creative and express our deep feelings honestly. Most importantly, we will not lose ourselves in our dream.

I will be satisfied if I can indulge in my sweet dreams forever no matter it is real or not.

Some of the memories are in the bottom of our heart. We can flip pages by pages while dreaming. Sadly, after waking up, we have to throw them back into the abyss of the deep sea.

- Charlene Lee

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The literal meaning of awakening is ‘waking up’ or ‘stop sleeping’.

The best mornings always begin with waking up with the weak sunlight beaming through the curtain and falling on our eyelids. Such nice weather always implies good mood, no matter how stressful you are the previous day. But have we ever paid attention to the beauty around us every morning? Try looking out of the window. Pay attention to tiny details. You may find things that can light up your mood even in this hustling city.

On the other hand, awakening can be seen as a sudden realisation or a strong feeling about something you have been puzzled for a long time. Before that, it is a journey of truthseeking; it could be about anything: academic, family affairs or love, etc. Truths can be cruel, and simply being awakened from them isn’t enough, as facing the unvarnished truth is probably the toughest part.

At some point, we will start running away from the truth. When you realize your friend no longer cherishes what you have done for him/her; When you never receive a response from the one you care about the most; Or when you suddenly realise there’s a deadline tomorrow…

I remember there’s a song with the lyrics ‘And I walked across the line alone. To find a truth I’d never ever known.’ Being able to cross that ‘line’ means you finally have the courage to face yourself, or even your ‘flaws’. Therefore, when you finally stop running away, you are truly awakened.

At this moment, I’m tired, I’m so tired of running away from the bitter truths.

- Audrey Kam One year of university life has awakened my slumbering heart. Living with the attitude of ‘no care, no trouble’ for eighteen years, I finally discovered that I have the ability to take up more responsibilities than expected.

I was fine with being an ordinary person who takes ordinary jobs and has an ordinary life. I thought I was satisfied and regarded it as my interpretation of happiness. However, after having a taste of university life, I was amazed by its colour and glamour. I was full of surprise that the style of living was not what I wanted. To be candid, I was just a frog from the bottom of a well who refused to change.

I would say freshman year is when we start dreaming. Beginnings are always hard.

Confronting all the unknowns, I thought I would never find my place in the new environment. But then all these panic and fear awakened me -- it was time to make changes, I believed. We receive comments and opinions from others. They tell us to get rid of constraints and always follow our hearts. Reflecting on my own, I have been limiting myself to meet others’ expectations, and following the steps of others for so long.

University life is so bright and beautiful. I have to learn to devote and to be myself.

It was an awakening, when I began to talk about my dream, and to think about my direction in life.

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- Alice Hui

The Works Nocturnal

by Mateo

Kaye Cyril Balcita

Sunrises are a symbol of hope. Literally, it represents a new day. A new start full of new chances. A chance to do everything all over again differently. When people wake up and catch the beautiful sunrise, they are filled with that uplifting titillation, that hope to last the day or otherwise tackle it.

The break of dawn 足the first glimpse of sunlight 足is hope. The debut of light plays an important role in that metaphor. Why, then, does that analogy not work with the sunlight at noon, or at any other time of day? Light is the embodiment of hope, is it not? When we see the light at the end of the tunnel, we see hope. During the day, light showers us. We are bathing with light. Are we bathing with hope?

Most of the time, the case is untrue. Every day swells with the numerous realization of dashed hopes and dreams. The enlightenment that there is nothing to enlighten, as paradoxical as it sounds, is the inevitable truth. We wake up to the daylight, from our fantastic dreams to the harsh reality. The reason there are no expressions correlating noon and hope is that noontime does not actually make us feel hopeful. Now I ask, why is it so?

I realized why. In the daytime, light is everywhere. Every corner and crevice somehow manages to be illuminated. Darkness is non足existent, temporarily extinct.

When one is overwhelmed with hope, that darkness disappears. But without the enemy of light, what, as a result, is the point of having hope? Much like being presented with a million persuasive advertisements without a dollar or a shop to splurge in. It merely becomes a daily routine and most people practically just aim to get through the day.

Then, once day ends, the dominating darkness shadows over Hong Kong 足 oh wait, not quite there yet.

Come evening, the synthetic lights of the city become discernible. Fake hope is still hopeless, yet countless citizens opted for that kind of lifestyle and environment, for an endless rat race. The city suffers from light pollution and by that familiar analogy is also polluted with hope. In that ironic twist of fate, Hong Kong is a city besmirched with hopeless hopefuls. People working hard to earn money for happiness, only to never get there and end up with the opposite result by default. Patriotic Hongkongers

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protesting regularly, only to have their voices fall on deaf ears, yet they do it over and over. I can go on, but I would rather not.

In Hong Kong, light shows are both an attraction and a nuisance. Neon lights hanging above Kowloon streets glare through windows as unwanted visitors. Digital advertisements add deception to artificiality. Impressive skyscrapers on the Island side glimmer and glisten inconsiderately, becoming boastful buildings with glowering glows. This is an issue, but also a novelty. A fantastic time to visit. An awful place to be surrounded by every single night.

Now, it is nighttime. Past midnight maybe. It is darker than it is bright, though we could do with less light. A few neon signs continue to shine, a sighing sign of neverending business in Hong Kong. People do not want to deal with this much darkness, so they fall asleep back to that state of dream. Their escape from reality is a revelation of their inner hopes. They discover what is ideal to them despite probably forgetting their dreams the moment they wake. Even when we are asleep, without light, hope exists and looms.

This is my time of awakening. I have always prefered this dark period to the relentless brightness. If there is one thing I learned about light, it is that its energy tends to be partnered with heat. It is a burning sensation, and often induces pain.

Hong Kong scorches during the day. I choose to harness its energy at night.

My schedule is no different from many other healthy people’s if you compare without the time. I get up and get ready for school, to my night classes where I learn as much and pay as much attention as any daytime full­time college student. It is better for me too. We have fewer students enrolling in night classes, so it’s easier to focus in a smaller setting, and since the professor has fewer students to teach and handle, our lessons are more interactive and I can easily ask questions.

After school, I work part­time in an overnight bar and restaurant in the SOHO area. Young adults like me still party at the dead of night, and we’re even livelier. Free, in a way unrestrained, as social as days’ interactions. Dreams come out and scatter at the midnight hour. We concentrate them wherever we are. What does that make us?

Awaken dreams.

I arise when others doze. I am living when they are dreaming. I would much rather be up as dusk begins to silence my surroundings, save for the little bursts of energy, with sufficiently little light than wake up with sore eyes and a sour face to a mocking rise­and­shine scene only to spend the next few hours doing repetitive and mindless work like a zombie or a robot.

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Every trip home to my Causeway Bay flat must consist of me marveling at luminous objects. It may be a light pollution problem, but the dark­to­light ratio is fine by me. Just a bit of hope, each bulb regarded important in shining my path protecting and guiding me. If I am lucky, I might spot stars and gaze at them for a good half hour.

This environment, which I bask in, only happens in some first­world cities, or possibly only here in Hong Kong. I cannot imagine life elsewhere. What time would I get up? Would I still be a night­dweller or live like the rest of the world? I am not keen to find out.

I reach home, tired but satisfied. The sky slowly fades in colour, shifting from coffee brown 3 a.m. to aphrodisiac lilac 6 a.m. We have come full circle. The sunrise encourages me. In an hour or two, the city will be bustling once again, and the light resumes its role as something taken for granted.

While I am still filled with fresh ­ might I say natural ­hope, I prepare for bed. I dream with light all over me.

That sounds like a good life, doesn’t it? Hope you have a great day.

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Hey, please wake up

by C.

K.

Through the journey full of fallen-leaves, No one can call me.

Hey, don’t tell everyone that: I will not wake up!

I am going to keep sleeping till the end of life, But not open my eyes for a moment, Just like the door approaching to paradise shut up.

Through the journey towards death, No one can hurt me.

Hey, keep in secret that: I will not wake up!

I am going to pretend to enjoy my sleep, Although I know, I might die of it.

Just like the last drop of tear for the time dried up.

Through the journey counting the depth, No one can blame me.

Hey, please don’t spread it away: I will not wake up!

I am going to hide myself from the sun and the wind, Although I know, nowhere is shelter, Just like the hero of justice will not stand up.

But, If I will not wake up, Who can replace me?

If I will not wake up, Who can represent the world?

If I will not wake up, Who can fight for the justice?

Hey, please wake yourself up, Please wake your friends up.

Please wake the world up!

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The Music in His Ears

by Timothy

Chan

It was midnight, and he was still studying the score scrupulously, ignoring not a single accidental or expression mark, as if he was conducting it, and all the gazes were upon him. Above his head played a broken tune on his aging loudspeaker, whose volume he dared not turn up. He had been using this speaker for such a long time his mind had already adjusted itself to it. Any imperfection was automatically corrected, sometimes replaced, in his mind, so that the speaker was essentially new to him. Very often he would wake up with the score in his hand, the CD still running interminably above.

He had no intention of becoming a conductor, though. The mere thought of being gazed upon in real life petrified him. Listening would suffice. As a matter of fact, he did not even know any musical instrument. He dreamt of owning a violin, a piano, and an oboe, so that he could record the accompaniment on piano, and play solo on either violin or oboe—all to himself. Repeatedly he asked his mother if she could buy an instrument, any instrument at all, for him. The response was identical: no, because we don’t have money, and you will just play it for a few days and throw it away. Nonetheless he continued to ask persistently.

‘Nigel, tell me, why do you like Mozart so much?’

Whenever he was acquainted with someone new this question inevitably surfaced. He would love to respond with a genuine answer, but it would take so much time he did not even bother to spend. Firstly, he did not really like Mozart, but habitually he treated Mozart as a synonym for ‘classical music’, because after all, that’s what the others were meaning to ask; secondly, his reasons for loving classical music could not be explained in a small-talk scenario: it was something serious, something that should be discussed between enthusiasts.

At first, he did not want to find a job, not because he didn’t need the money—he needed the money—but because he didn’t want to talk to anyone. Eventually, at the cajolement of his friends and family, he found a job as an usher at a local town hall.

It was not a bad job at all, even though he had to force a smile and face people. The best part, as expected, was the music. As Dvořák’s Symphony No. 9 commenced, the curvaceous landscape of the score, which he had remembered in his mind, reappeared before his eyes. He could not really reconstruct the entirety of the score—how could

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he, with so many instruments playing simultaneously? Coupled with the fact he didn’t know any instrument, everything was basically guesswork. He knew, though, when the notes sounded high, the notations would go up. With this in mind, he could basically correlate the sound with the score, and most of the time, including the rhythm. The second movement Largo was most memorable for him. It was simple yet melancholic; the score naturally and easily resurrected in him. The winds hovered in the air like autumn leaves, and he could almost smell the leaves from the notes, quaint yet alluring.

But the job did not last long.

‘Nigel, you cannot just shush anyone who coughs or whispers. Do you want to expel everyone?’

‘But sir, they are disturbing the performers and me… I mean the listeners.’

‘I told you many times, unless they shout or their phones ring, you cannot shush them. What if they never come back again? We need the support, the money.’

‘Sir, with all due respect, most of them don’t really enjoy the music,’ Nigel said with an air of desperation. ‘They come here just to show off their “upper class” flair; some students just come here because their teachers force them to, and they sleep and snore and cough…’

Nigel had no intention to find another job. Instead, he turned to his studies again, hoping to find relish in it.

In a quiet study room with his friends, Nigel enjoyed the silence. He could not comprehend why anyone could and would study in a clamorous atmosphere, with headphones on, playing absolute racket. As a matter of fact, he wouldn’t even study in the company of anyone, even friends—boredom would turn to chatter, chatter to debate, and finally to amusement. The inevitable, though, occurred when one of his friends suggested that some music be played to ease the serious atmosphere.

The room was to themselves, so they didn’t worry about making any sound. A friend had already taken out his phone, choose meticulously which piece of music to entertain the group. Nigel, not knowing what had come over his mind, took out his phone too, and started playing the overture from La Forza del Destino.

‘What is this racket? Stop it!’ Two friends shouted almost simultaneously, startled by the sudden sound of orchestra played foggily yet deafeningly on the phone. Nigel was quite taken aback by the belligerence from his friends. Immediately he stopped the orchestra and hid his phone in his pocket. His friends, oblivious of the bewilderment

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and desperation in his eyes, continued to play their music with boisterous enthusiasm, making rhythmic movements as the music went along.

Nigel tried to lighten the atmosphere again when he was with another group of friends, studying in a quiet room. As expected, someone suggested playing music; this time, Nigel played some light-hearted excerpts from Rigoletto. As soon as the violin commenced their frolic dances, though, Nigel’s friends burst into laughter. Nigel’s attempt failed again, and he quietly put back his phone. He understood.

It was a drizzly afternoon. The clouds amassed in the silver-grey sky, and the heat was most palpable in the air, setting aflame the fragile flesh of people in the street.

They were rushing home, their sweat beads reflecting the sunlight that was about to disappear. There was an opaque quality to all the faces, all emotionless while their ears were occupied by the tiny earphones.

Nigel wanted to go home, but was forced to attend a concert with his friends, who insisted that the concert would open his eyes. He would normally say no to any pop concert, because to him it was a waste of time, trying to enjoy something he couldn’t enjoy; but this time it was different. There was a girl whom he met in class.

For some mysterious reasons Nigel was attracted to her—he didn’t know why, but there was a vigour in his chest that wanted to tear his heart out until he saw her. In his mind sprung millions of melodies, such as Elgar’s Salut d’amour and Puccini’s Donna non vidi mai, but none could calm his agitated mind. He had to see her.

The storm was brewing, but enclosed in the safety of the school hall, no one seemed to mind what’s going on out there in the dark. Inside, everyone was enjoying themselves, waving their hands as the performer on the stage sung many of their favourites; not all were waving according to the beat, though, but none minded—it was a place where people enjoyed the mood and being together. No music came into Nigel’s ears though; he was still looking for the girl, and all were but monotones to him. There was something about this music that Nigel didn’t enjoy: the lack of complexity, for example. He once looked at the score of a pop piece, and everything was constructed like a brick house—square and repetitive. It seemed to him that everything was moulded from the same designer—if it was designed at all. Finally he caught a glimpse of the girl, standing in the front, waving hand rhythmically. He glanced around, and seeing that he had lost his friends, tried to approach her. The loudspeakers were bellowing loudly near the stage, shaking everything in its radius, including Nigel’s heart, which was beating more rapidly now. Channelling through the crowd, Nigel finally arrived right behind the girl. He eyed her from the head to the toes, feeling guilty as he did it; he felt like a pervert, but he could not control his

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eyes—until he eyed again and saw her hand. Her right hand was not waving; in fact, it was clenched in the hand of another, a boy.

There was nothing Nigel could do; it was lost. He tried to summon up the sounds of violin, of flute, of French horn, but the sounds were all muffled. He headed to the music room, where the dust on the piano was so thick one could hardly notice the instrument. Gently lifting the cover, he laid his hands on the keyboard, noticing that it was evidently cleaner than the cover, speckless in certain keys around in the middle.

He must have stroked the keys somewhere in the past, but there was no memory in him now. Right of the piano sat several scores quietly in the corner, dusted like the piano, but one could still discern the word Schubert. Putting the score lightly on the piano, Nigel tried to play the piece, but his fingers were uncontrollable; the silhouette of notes did not make sense to him—there were sharps and flats—his fingers knew not where to put.

The rain was pouring down as if the entire heaven had come down. The branches of the trees were broken, exposing the innocent white flesh. Nigel decided to go home, knowing that all hope was lost. Behind him the sounds went on.

His clothes were all wet, from the rain and from the tears; he could not tell the difference, or if his room was wet or not. Immediately he rushed into his room, ignoring his distressed mother, who was constantly asking questions. He locked himself in his room, the water on his face reflecting the dim lamp on the ceiling. In his mind played melodies that were no longer recognisable, broken chords that made no sense. He sat quietly on his chair, which was making squeaking noises, blending in perfectly with the noises in his mind. He reached out his hand, habitually, to place his beloved CD into the CD rack. But the rack didn’t move. His finger insistently pressed the open button, but there was no reaction. The storm continued raging outside, and the spiteful rain was breaching into his room through the open window.

It was open.

The lock was gone.

The rain slowly seeped into the machine, and there was no reaction. Nigel’s body became stiff, even though he was drenched in tears and rain. He slowly went to the bed and lay down. The music in his mind started to disintegrate, as if the lightning had burnt his brain. Everything became sounds, and joining the thunderstorm, turned into a symphony of noise.

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Ame

by Angelo

Wong

Fireworks, cobbled together on grimy workbenches by sleepless hands, bloom thinly in the bright September sky.

Children dash through the streets past abandoned shop fronts and empty food stalls. Did you hear? They’re leaving! They’re leaving! They skirt corners of piled refuse and up unlit stairways before bursting out on a building top, to an uninterrupted view of the harbour below.

It is packed, Chinese, British, civilian, military. They line the sides of the road leading to the pier, simmering with exultation and disgust in the same breath. There are police present, but what shores the crowd back is three years’ worth of fear and the taunting thought that, even now, this cannot be true. Were it not for this they would surely rise forward in a flood of spitting and jeering and swamp the beaten soldiers who tramp through, too tired to maintain formation.

They are Japanese soldiers, these defeated bodies. Once they held their heads proud and their hearts strong, filled with the senseless conviction that theirs was the cause, the way, the battle which should be fought. It is nowhere to be found now. Two bombs later and two hundred thousand dead, and a holy war is revealed to be what it always was: slaughter, seen everywhere but noticed by none. Yet who can blame them, these figures of uniform-clad flesh filing at gunpoint to board their homebound ship?

This is just the way of wars.

Fireworks are still being set off, but already the sky is clouded with smoke. *** The man was the only one there. The whitewashed walls couldn’t camouflage his pallor as he lay in the only occupied bed of the room. His body was hidden beneath a thin hospital blanket; it was a privilege in these war-torn times.

And a source of curiosity to the girl peering in through the window. It was summer. The air shimmered with rising heat waves and murmured wishes of an end in sight. She couldn’t understand why, when the windows had been thrown open and the fans switched on, the man was swathed in a blanket. Maybe he was dying; maybe that was why he couldn’t feel the heat. At that thought the girl’s curiosity flared and, looking around her to make sure that there was nobody to see, she clambered up the ledge and dropped silently into the room. She began to creep toward the figure on the bed, who lay unmoving but for the slight rise and fall of his chest.

He didn’t stir at her approach. Perhaps he was going to die in the next minute.

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She’d never seen anyone die before. The excitement overcame her natural caution, drawing her forward from a slow tiptoe into an eager trot, and before long she was at the bed, hand outstretched to peel back the covers.

A hand shot up and gripped her arm. A pair of suspicious eyes fixed on her.

But she was used to this. A year on the streets had equipped her with all the skills she needed to survive. She knew when to cry and look pitiable, and when to scratch and claw then run with all her might.

She twisted her arm now, and aimed a jab at the man’s eyes. That usually did the trick. But he just turned his head to avoid it, and squeezed her arm even harder until she cried out. Her body relaxed. Taking it as a sign of surrender, the man loosened his grip, so that it stopped hurting but was still tight enough to remind her who was in control. This was defeat, she knew, and she braced herself for what was to come. It’d be a beating, most likely. The vendors along the hillside alleyways had no time to waste lecturing the ruffians who came in periodically to steal food, a rationed commodity in these times.

But the expected blow didn’t come. The man looked wryly at her and asked, “nani shiterun dai?” What’re you doing?

The girl didn’t know what it was he said, but the meaning was clear enough. She’d go free. It was too bad that he wasn’t dying after all, and that she wouldn’t get to see beneath the blanket, but that was all right. Maybe she’d come again later when he was asleep.

But he didn’t let go. Instead, with his other hand he reached across the bed and rummaged in a drawer before turning back to her. “ame hoshii?” You want candy?

He held out a handful of milk candies, a little brown with age but decidedly edible.

At the sight of such an unexpected find the girl’s eyes widened, deepening into bottomless pits of single-minded greed. She nodded, once, twice, eyes never leaving the white-wrapped bundles that nestled in his palm. “iin da yo,” he said, releasing her hand. “hora.” Here you go.

The girl waited no longer. She pounced on the sweets and quickly stuffed them down her shirt; now freed, she stumbled a few steps backward. A suddenly remembered courtesy made her bob a little bow for the gift. Then she turned around, scrambled up the window, and disappeared from sight.

The man began laughing quietly to himself. How many months had it been since

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he’d last seen a girl like her? Bold, curious, insolent, and polite only when she had to be… He’d quite forgotten that people like this could exist. She was so different from the other girls here he’d known, who only knew to cower and beg.

He found himself growing more and more interested in her. *** They met again, a few weeks afterward, as she tore through narrow streets in escape from a noodle shop owner.

One look from the man had been enough to set the enraged storeowner quivering as though punctured with a thousand needles of fear. They knew him around these parts, had seen him come in and out, a gun balanced lightly in his hand, safety off.

He’d passed by once on a festival day, drunk. Someone had accidentally knocked into him from behind, and—he himself didn’t know what happened next, having only the impression of muffled sobs and the lingering sense of something in his hands.

Fabric in his left, hair in his right. And hand prints, salty and wet, streaking down the concrete wall. From that day on the people were even warier of him than they were of the other soldiers.

But the girl, of course, did not know this.

She hid behind him now, pulling faces at the shop owner’s receding back. Then she turned, and would have sauntered on her way to pilfer yet another food store if the man hadn’t addressed her. “oishikatta no ka, ano ame?” Those candies, were they nice?

She turned back around. He was kneeling, and peering intently at her. She didn’t know what he meant, but she could tell from his gaze that there was something he wanted to know. There was a dimness in his eyes, twisting and coiling with the consistency of firebomb smoke. It was an entity both dead and desperately alive, and if the girl had seen it she might have recognised it in herself as hunger.

Ame. She remembered this word, though it was weeks ago. It must mean those sweets he’d given her. Was he going to give her more? She decided to nod. Nodding always worked. “motto hoshii kai?” You want some more sweets?

Nod, nod. She took care to smile, too: she knew well the effect of a good smile on a would-be beneficiary. “issho ni ikou. ie ni ippai aru yo.” Come with me. I’ve got lots at home.

He had straightened up, was beckoning to her. He was going to take her to the

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shop, wasn’t he? She fell into step behind him.

That suited her. *** They’d passed the three candy stores she knew in the region and still he showed no sign of stopping.

The moon was up early, a malnourished sliver of white in the still-blue sky. But already signs of the dawning twilight could be seen around them: huddled groups of workers trudging by, sun-blackened and lined faces turned downward in submission; soldiers strolling inland in the same direction they took; steel grates being slammed down over shop fronts. Soon it would be dark, and time for curfew: dogs were said to roam the streets then, trained to attack people on sight.

The girl wondered what manner of candy store he was taking her to, that they had to walk so far and for so long. Inwardly, she began calculating the time taken to come here and the time it would take her to return to her hideout, and if it was worth the payoff of sweets from the man.

The man wondered, not for the first time, if it was such a good idea bringing the girl here in full view of other soldiers. He knew what he’d brought her here for, had known since that day in the hospital room when he lay with his leg immobilised and saw her with her cut teeth and sparkling eyes set like gemstones in grimy bedrock. But surely there were other times, and other picks too…

They walked on through the autumn city. The road forked ahead: left led to the barracks, while right led back to the city.

He stopped between the two and the girl stopped with him. There were her fingers laced through his hand, and as he pointed left he could feel her fingertips and her skin and the chill down beneath. “acchi da.” That way.

An evening breeze blew, stroking the girl’s shoulders with a teasing curl of air.

She shivered.

The man saw: and he took a sudden turn, down the road on the right to the city and the shops, and the girl went with him. They arrived at a Japanese sweet shop opened for the soldiers’ patronage.

It was a precise affair which occurred within, no different from the exchange of goods or the signing of a treaty. The girl looked around at the sweets on offer. The man

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stood and watched. The girl picked one she liked. The man paid for her. And together they exited the store, strangers in the falling dusk. *** He’d taken her to a park to sit and finish her sweets. He didn’t know why. He told himself it was so they wouldn’t be seen by returning soldiers.

As he gazed up at the trees, which were beginning to grow bare, he felt a faint nudge at his elbow. He looked down at the girl beside him.

She was holding a mochi towards him. It was the last one in the bag, he noticed. “… Ojii-san ni?” For me?

She nodded. Nodded and smiled.

Surprised, he took the gift in his hands; and then the girl was up, was running, was gone.

He didn’t chase after her. They’d installed a metal plate into his leg for a bullet wound, using a piece of scrap iron rather than proper medical equipment due to shortages. It had led to complications. His hospital stay. His inability to run.

He only deserved it, he supposed, trying to do that to her.

He smiled wryly and, raising the mochi to his mouth, bit down. *** It is still too bright for fireworks, but they keep firing, shooting smoky trails across the once-clear air with nothing to show for it except a faint glimmering among the sunlit clouds.

He’s on the ship now, crowded among the battered remains of his countrymen.

Some, he knows, had had families there, warmth and hugs and smiles and laughter reduced to just radioactive particles in the atmosphere. He’s one of the lucky ones, he tells himself. At least he didn’t have anyone left to lose.

As it casts off and speeds from the shore in an ignominious retreat, he looks inland, seeking with suddenly anxious eyes the hospital, the sweets shop, the park. He hadn’t met the girl again since. It was a relief, that knowledge, but it was a disappointment too. He hopes now that he can catch one final fleeting glimpse of her, stealing from the unguarded stores, a grin wide on her unscrupulous face.

But all he sees are the blank-eyed shells of empty houses.

A cold sea draught lifts to him the forgotten scent of a barren homeland.

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The Recommendations Film Awakenings (1990) Timothy Chan This film features the kind of awakening that is experienced by patients who have been catatonic for more than 20 years. Leonard Lowe (Robert de Niro) is a patient who suffers from encephalitis lethargica, a brain disease which renders the patient motionless and speechless. Dr Sayer (Robin Williams) is a neurologist who first uses the drug L-dopa to treat these patients. The drug proves to be effective at first, and patients like Lowe are able to communicate with others and even perform movements like dancing.

However, these effects are short-lived—the patients soon become motionless again as the drugs become ineffective.

Based on a true story, this film is incredibly touching and is brilliantly presented by the two wonderful actors. De Niro skilfully portrays a character with two sides of life—the catatonic and the awakened. The awakened Lowe demonstrates his desire to become part of society again, to make friends, to enjoy the zest of life. So determined is his will he rejects Dr Sayer’s suggestions and leaves the hospital, only to discover he has relapsed into catatonia. The awakening process is therefore brief, and the contrast between sleep and awakening vast.

This film touches on the issue of life, hope and death. To wake up, for some people, is a miracle, something that does not happen naturally. ‘What we do know is that, as the chemical window closed, another awakening took place… the human spirit is more powerful than any drug - and that is what needs to be nourished: with work, play, friendship, family,’ Dr Sayer concludes in the end to the patrons of the hospital. Though the general mood of the film is dark, there is a hint of optimism in the end; being able to wake up is a gift from life, and one should always cherish this gift.

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The Truman Show (1998) Vivian Tam Truman Burbank leads an ordinary life; at least he thinks he does. In fact, he is the star of The Truman Show, a reality television programme where his life and every movement has been documented since his birth. The island that he lives in is a set built by the directors; the family and friends that he thinks he has are actors; his whole life is being manipulated and broadcast for entertainment. Truman is blissfully unaware of his fictitious life until he starts to notice cracks that seem odd and unusual. For example, he observes how the same people appear at the same time and place every single day. Finally, he starts to question the world that he lives in. Despite his extreme fear of water, he determines to leave the island for truth seeking.

Our lives are kind of like The Truman Show. Our ego helps us deal with the physical reality by creating a world that we feel comfortable in. Many of us would choose to stay in the security offered by such environment but it is not real. There are other worlds that exist outside of our comfort zone and we are not aware of them. As a result, we follow conventions, do not take risks and dare not do something different, but instead stay in the safety of a false reality.

This continues until the subtle messages that come from the greater world beyond what we imagine act as an awakening call to break us from our comfort zone.

Whether it is the death of someone close to us or the spiritual enlightenment through religion, we will wake up from the delusion of everyday life and begin to question if there is anything more to life than what we have now.

There must be fears and difficulties that one has to overcome in the course of awakening. For Truman, he has to overcome his fear for water to cross an unknown sea and breaks free from the fabricated world that he lives in. However, his determination allows him to finally find a way out. Therefore, if we are really focused and give our best effort, there is nothing that can stop us from succeeding and seeking the greater meaning in life.

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Poem ‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening’ From New Hampshire

By Robert Frost April Soo Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening was the first poem I read in the DSE literature syllabus and is also one of my favorite poems among all the other picks. I am not a good reader; I do not know much vocabulary that allows me to understand poems thoroughly, and I also am not imaginative enough to reinterpret the writer’s thought. But poem is so special that it allows varieties of reading and is not rigid in how one internalises it then apply in one’s encounters. This poem by Robert Frost is built with simple words, but has provoked plentiful thoughts for readers and is also a piece that clings tight to one’s mind easily.

The setting of this poem is of great importance. Not only is it in a snowy winter season, it also takes place in ‘the darkest evening’. The dim background is suggesting a sense of blurriness that can also be taken figuratively. One can imagine the helplessness and loneliness the speaker is going through when he is on this journey. Just like many moments in our lives, being directionless about the future may tempt us to pause or even stop progressing.

However, even if ‘woods are lovely, dark and deep’ like the external temptations (here symbolised by woods), we all have our own obligations and ‘promises to keep’.

The speaker at last restores his rationality and pulls himself back. We can see that he has awakened from the treacherous dream and has gone back into the track. There are times that I am in despair and rejected by life, and perhaps many people do go through the same too. You may wish to break down and drown yourselves in tears but perhaps a year later, a week later or even just a day later, you are awakened and can see the miles ahead that are worth going on. As cliché as it may sound, do not just give up because we all should believe in ourselves. Stay awake, as there are ‘miles to go before [you] sleep’.

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Short Story ‘Cathedral’ From What We Talk About When We Talk About Love

By Raymond Carver Yolanda Yau Do you find it difficult to describe the things you know? Let’s say, a cathedral. It is tall, huge, and historical. It is a massive building. It is an important and sacred place for Christians. Is there anything else? Or, do you have a good idea about it?

Cathedral, which is a short story written by Raymond Carver, centres on a male narrator, his wife and a blind man. It begins with a blind man, Robert, heading to the narrator’s home for a stay.

The narrator then starts telling us the previous life of Robert and his wife. He is jealous of their bonding and has a strange feeling towards him. Later on the three characters had some chat. Towards the end, Robert asked the narrator to describe what a cathedral is. The narrator found it hard to do so until he closed his eyes to draw a cathedral with Robert.

Though the blind man cannot see things physically, he is much more capable to use his mind and heart to perceive things deeply. In contrast, being an ordinary man, the narrator is supposed to view things in a clearer sense. He understands things as he listens, like the audiotape with the narrator’s wife, or as he feels by heart. However, he just seems to take everything for granted, and overlooks the significance of the things in life. For example, he finds Robert’s wife pitiful because her husband could never ‘look’ at her in her entire life. Yet, sarcastically, the relationship between him and his wife is not as intimate as that between the blind man and her. As those subtle things seem meaningless to him, he becomes an insecure and self-centred person.

When the narrator draws the cathedral with his eyes closed, it was his first time to view things from a completely different perspective - to feel, rather than to look simply. When he finishes drawing, he realises that ‘it’s really something’ and had a placeless feeling. This is a sense of epiphany - despite his ability to see and talk, he could not articulate anything clearly. He starts to share the experience as the blind man. Perhaps his sense of insecurity is derived from his ignorance of the deepness and compassion. He focuses too much on superficiality. He lacks in-depth communication with his wife, which makes him suspicious of the intimacy between Robert and her.

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Actually this is one of our common flaws - if we get used to a certain environment, we will start to take things for granted. We will underestimate the significance of them, especially some abstract assets like love and intimacy. It takes us years to build them up, but they may be constructed on the shaky ground if our mind is clouded by other self-centred thoughts. Not only the narrator, I am also awakened by this realisation. I am easily overwhelmed with my responsibilities in different aspects. Sometimes I may neglect the crucial elements of my life. At a particular moment, I have a strong craving for soul-searching and reflection. I want to slow down my pace a little bit. I want to spend more time in my place and treasure every bit with my beloved ones. I want to make everybody satisfied. Though it is difficult, if not impossible, to accomplish the checklist, I am sure that awakening can guide me to a positive way.

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Fiction ‘The Happiness Project’

By Gretchen Rubin Heidi Pang In a materialistic and competitive society such as today’s, it is highly likely that people could lose themselves constantly wanting for more satisfying and boundless desires while making unreasonable and unnecessary comparisons with people around us. This self-destructing habit of ours would take us nowhere but to despair, insecurity and diffidence.

The book The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin has brought me to an awakening as I realise I have been living my life the wrong way. It reminds me of how I should be grateful for everything that I have now, as well as to develop into a better person through making changes in everyday life.

Rubin mentions how she has all the reasons to be happy and content with her life as a lawyer, a happy wife and a mother of two young lovely victimise ourselves whenever we come across events that didn’t go in the way we wanted, as well as in times when we believe a more desirable life is laid in the future.

Upon reading the introduction of the book, I had an epiphany that I am not being thankful in life as much as I should. Rubin is right when she mentions how life is short, and that we should be grateful in our ordinary days. She reminds us how we should stop, look around appreciating things in life more often. She dedicated one whole year for her happiness project, and set a focus for each month. She then works on small changes of habit in her everyday life of that particular theme. Rubin finds that it is often the most trivial things that make the biggest difference.

The book gave me enlightenment in a new way to live my life; it acts as a reminder for me to always be grateful for the things I have, instead of feeling dissatisfied for the things that I don’t have. For now, whenever I feel discouraged or depressed, I would bury myself in her book, while reminding myself of how blessed I am.

Below is an inspiring quote I found in the book: ‘Happiness comes not from having more, not from having less, but from wanting what you have’ – Gretchen Rubin 35 Features

The Poet

In the previous issue of LINK, we offered a little challenge for our readers—to complete a poem by filling in the blanks. Below is the work of a talented writer!

Title: Perplexity Name: Kathy Kwan Staying alive, and the world feels with you; Seeking meaning, and you feel alone; For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth, But has trouble enough of its own.

Time passes, and the hills will mock; Your voice, it is howling on the air; The echoes bound to a joyful sound, But shrink from voicing care.

Step in, and your halls are bright; Look around, and the world goes by.

Succeed and give, and it helps you live, But no man can help you die.

There is room in the halls of future For a large and almighty creature, But one by one we must all file on Through the self-discovery maze.

Originial poem: Solitude, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Relax, and men will judge you; They see, and they know; They want full measure of all your soul, But they do not need your woe.

Be patient, and your friends are coming; Be still, and you hear them all,— There are none to decline your plea, But alone you must drink the bitter tea.