Author: Terrie Chen

Clouds are innocuous things to look upon, omnipresent, mundane, worth barely a mention. The sky is there every day and night. Weather often serves as a filler in conversations, a last resort. And yet, many seem to have a propensity for sunsets and sunrises and dramatic summer cumulonimbuses. Never mind cliche. “Let’s enjoy nature,” people say, and head out to the yard or the lake to watch the sunset. There is allure, clearly, but what?

Some time ago, when I had been maintaining a personal blog, I discovered a little link-share page. It was called Skywatch Friday, and the concept was very simple. Every Friday, you blogged. You posted a picture of sky. You added your link to the Skywatch page, and your thumbnail was displayed for all to see. Here’s the sky in Sweden, the sky in Melbourne, the sky in Iowa. For three years, I browsed others’, posted my own.

Inane? Perhaps. But what you learned was how to see.

One needs be neither a meteorologist nor an astronomer to  find interest in studying the sky.

A great number of posts contained the classic something-silhouetted-against-a-sunset shot, or the picture-of-buildings-with-a-sliver-of-sky-in-the-back kind of deal, perhaps. Some displayed particularly striking and unusual atmospheric conditions. One can take a picture for the sake of taking one to post (it boosts my traffic!), or because it seems aesthetically pleasing, or because there is a rare phenomenon that musn’t be missed. These are simple. Click, done. But then there are the ones that physically, literally, do not show anything of particular interest. Yet they manage to be more than aesthetically pleasing- meaningful, thought-provoking.

Interpretation is the viewer’s task.

I’ve recently just read Annie Dillard’s Seeing, an essay on just that. Bah, you think. Everyone sees. We’re not blind. The truth is objective. It is out there. Is that really the case? In a way, but not quite. We see, she seems to say, what we expect to see. We do not see what we do are not searching for. Those well-versed in their particular areas of knowledge will always see more, know more about their own area than outsiders do.

The point is that I just don’t know what the lover knows; I just can’t see the artificial obvious that those in the know construct. The herpetologist asks the native, “Are there snakes in that ravine?” “Nosir.” And the herpetologist comes home with yessir, three bags full.

Although, what we see is certainly not set in stone. One only has to look. Possess the desire to know, to see, and it will happen. I am not suggesting the sky is full of rich, life-fulfilling truths, necessarily, only that it is a good place to begin. We give such simple things not a second glance, not a second thought. Can it not be that we are missing something?

The air is hot and heavy as we traverse the maze-like side streets of Lukang. The buildings are older here, and the only traffic is foot or bicycle. Homes and shops are crowded together, but nevertheless exude an air of cleanliness. Fruit trees are hidden unexpectedly in corners. On the worn steps of a temple squeezed into a dead end are some elderly ladies, smoking and chattering. We approach, waving. We ask, do you know where the H– bakery is? Hmm, they murmur, squinting at one another. Back up that way, one says. Left and right and right again. The others nod in agreement.

The streets turn this way and that. Somewhere along the way a thick, pleasant odour wafts out into the street. There are piles and piles of little black coils lying along the outside wall of a small shop. What could these be, we wonder. We speculate: coasters, maybe? Probably not. Curious, though.

Inside the shop a man is bent over his work. He is making, as it turns out, incense. The man is a master of his trade. He explains his process. The doughy material is pressed from the machine- this is the great black iron beast the younger man is handling- which the shop owner then rolls by hand and coils on a wheel. They are then left out in the sun to harden and cure.

The shop-owner warms to our presence, seemingly delighted explain to us everything.  He does not look up from his work as he does so, deft fingers working and shaping and creating the coils with startling efficiency.

He has been at this a long time, it turns out, since he was young. All the ingredients are natural, he says, rather reminiscently. He used to gather much of it by hand. It was a family business. But there is also a grim set to his face. Business is not so good now; everything is commercialized these days, and there is competition. We’re surviving, he says finally, and it is silent for a moment.

In the end, we feel we cannot leave without having purchased a box from him. This package has little pale gold cones nestled in white tissue paper instead of the black coils, but it is not the point. It is hand-crafted, which is the point. Labor and care have been folded into each and every one of those little cones. Hard to come by, these days.

It’s a beloved stereotype of Americans, the idealizing and idolizing of British English (he sounds so smart- he’s got a British accent!). And while we may recognize that this perception exists, it is often hard to see any reason to discontinue it, because it’s not really a negative stereotype, after all, we rationalize. Some Americans see posh and classy; others see presumptuous and ridiculous. But is such conflict really necessary? Is it not possible to simply observe linguistic differences, be aware of them, admire them, be open to the idea of using them interchangeably (or with discretion)? Perhaps it is intriguing to explore similarities and differences for naught but curiosity’s sake.

Sometimes non-American spellings and usages do burrow their way into my writing (perhaps from having read or heard them one time too many), but I don’t see it as putting on airs. Sometimes we’re not pretending to be who we are not, but the awareness of different conventions can be satisfying to know, and irresistible to exercise once in a while. (I prefer grey to gray for aesthetic purposes, but find turning in papers with behaviour a tad excessive.) And however ethnocentric putting British English on a pedestal (or lumping all dialects into one, for that matter) may be, one must admit it can be quite the bit of fun to occasionally pretend at being someone else. Actors can adopt an entirely different set of mannerisms and ways of speaking, often quite well, but it’s not mockery. It’s not pretentious. It’s not ignorance.

Other times, what is interesting is how much English-speaking countries assume each other to be much the same, but for different pronunciations of words. And even then, this can prove a source of surprise and amusement. (“How do you say ‘car’? Oh my gosh, really? How do you say ‘banana’? Say it again! Say it again!”) There are, naturally, usage differences in our vocabularies, and sometimes different vocabularies altogether. More than once I’ve happened upon friends struggling to identify an object because they could not agree upon a mutually understood term. (This is for you.)

Recently, as I was thumbing through one of my textbooks, I came upon a section examining linguistic differences in dialects of English spoken everywhere. While we- or perhaps just I, really- tend to think that most differences in pronunciations lie in vowels (in their roundness or flatness, in length and the position of the tongue, for instance), and perhaps in the treatment of the letter r, it raised other good points. Allophones, sounds that are distinctive to the speakers of a language or dialect and will affect meaning if changed but make no difference to another language or dialect, vary even in English, for instance. What make the sounds of spoken variants of English distinctive from one another are often difficult to pinpoint, but they are there, somewhere.

This has a been a rambling discussion on English. Thank you for following.

Flash games are a dime a dozen. They proliferate across the internet, especially if one knows where to look. Some, however, are so well-constructed and intricately designed they are a work of art unto themselves. One such is 6 Differences. Although it has already been online for several years and is by no means new, it is certainly worth a look if you have never seen it before, or a revisit for those who have. Even those who do not usually care for flash games (such as I) might find this one interesting if nothing else. Recall, if you may, those side-by-side nearly identical illustrations one used to find in puzzle books or in the back of the daily paper. As its name suggests, Ivoryboy’s 6 Differences takes this classic and transforms it into something entirely new and worthwhile.

The game holds a strange and distinct atmosphere in a way that is difficult to lay a finger on. It is clear, however, that both visual and aural elements work in concert to create the slightly eerie ambiance that permeates the game. The sets of images appear largely photorealistic, sometimes mixed with vector-style rendering. Each set depicts a cold, empty nighttime scene. Some are urban, some are fantastical, some are industrial, and some look very ordinary but for the darkness, the only light the yellow wash of a street lamp somewhere off to the side. Everything, after all, looks different in the dark. All have a surreal, desolate air to them, some more than others.

Every time the player finds a difference, he or she is rewarded by a clear, piano-like tone that moves progressively up the scale with each subsequent find. One or two of the scenes, however, jolt one out of whatever calm, complacent place into which they have been lulled- the scale suddenly takes a unusual turn, something which, when paired with the surrealism of the image, can be decidedly disconcerting in effect. Another clever feature: however many things the player has left to find, there is an indicator of the number remaining, somewhere. Graphically, everything is almost seamlessly integrated. Animations are also built into the scene, natural regardless of how surreal everything else is. Many of these are meant to be distracting; others, environmental and repetitive, but they all do so well.

None of this, however, would have half the impact it does without the soundtrack, something so subtle one would hardly think to notice it at all. Every scene is backed by a subtle, sparse music that is augmented by the individually insignificant but integral white noise. The harsh caw of a crow. Wind. Crickets and cicadas. The sound of the smooth stream of traffic flowing down the highway a block over, unidentifiable environmental noises. The music consists of a slow, heavy rambling of piano, an electronic beat and faint drone insinuating themselves into the mix of sounds. In fact, the music sounds positively upbeat in comparison to everything else. It turns out the track comes from the Nine Inch Nails’ Ghosts album, an experimental collection filled with other pieces of similarly mesmerizing and eerie quality.

(Click through to play original with larger resolution)

t is commonly accepted that language is an essential part of life. The benefits of knowing more than one language, however, provides more than it takes. Languages open the boundaries between different peoples, cultures, nations. It is not unimpressive how much knowing more than one language can do. In our native tongues, we are comfortable; we are confident of our competence and skill in the familiar.

To those who know or learn another, however, there is more to the world. The comprehension of multiple languages is, to borrow a cliché, greater than the sum of its parts. Knowing more than one language helps each one to be seen not only more clearly, but also in a different light. Connections will be drawn, realizations made. There is nothing so uplifting as the process of gaining insight, of making sudden discoveries in addition to simple understanding. Every language is a branch or form or relative of another, alive or extinct. There are similarities to be sought, changes to be uncovered. You will understand why your own language functions the way it does.

Even brief encounters with other, unfamiliar languages are like looking through windows you never knew were there.

Sometimes, one hears of, or even encounters, extraordinary individuals who have mastered half a dozen (or more) languages. This induces a certain amount of envy, to be sure, but mostly a sense of awe. But, more commonplace an occurence, are the ordinary people all over the world who speak two. Sometimes one wonders: how many people speak English in addition to their own language, as opposed to native English speakers, many of whom speak only English?

Learning languages may not be the center of everyone’s focus or foremost of priorities, but ultimately, it really is or will be one of the most enriching and valuable experiences one might experience- not to mention the merits of learning in itself. Discussing such matters is in this University setting is rather redundant, I realize (most need no encouragement), but the message is for everyone. Learn another language; one can never know too many.
____
Drop cap credit to Jessica Hische; visit for inventive and impressive illustrations.

From a recent writing exercise:

It is still the dead of winter, but the world around him is coming very much alive. The sun has risen hours ago, but it is not yet midday; the top half of the building is bathed in a wash of warm russet-tinged gold, the tips of bare branches before it glazed as in a tracery of metallic filaments. Already the wash of late-morning light is trickling down the building’s grand facade. It trickles down the flutes of wide columns and into the crevices of cornices and corners, under sills and eaves. Foot traffic is beginning to increase, now. People have risen from their beds, have left their homes, all to some purpose of their own, for some individual or shared goal. They swirl around him where he stands, unmoving, on the pavement.

It is curious, he thinks. How utterly incomprehensible. This building, this bastion of knowledge and learning, pragmatic and idealistic, has been standing here for goodness knows how long. Enduring granite, withstanding the weathering of time. Has it always been this way? Do these people climbing these broad, snow-layered steps see what one would have seen a century ago? Do they see what he sees, a sort of wordless grandeur that stands against the black-and-white palette of winter, a monolith, a stone construct that embodies values now tacit and undefined? It seems to embrace the curious and the strivers and the learners, drawing them into its maw, breathing them out again.

The air is crisp and cold and holds with it the promise of a new day. Snow crystals glitter in the watery but growing sunlight, and around him more people are sweeping past, angling for the building, climbing wide steps, disappearing among the columns and inside. He inhales, tilts his head back to take in the building once more before he urges his feet into motion. Yes, yes indeed.