Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one,

Have oftimes no connection.  Knowledge dwells

In heads replete with thoughts of other men:

Wisdom, in minds attentive to their own.

Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much,

Wisdom is humble, that he knows no more.

–Author unknown

Remnants of Love

The train was as crowded as usual. I clung on to my backpack, all the time eyeing the notice in neon yellow above the window that said “Beware of pickpockets”. Piercing waves of pain continuously shot up and down my left arm as I struggled to hang on to the cold plastic handle. My whole body swayed to the rhythm of the train like a rock fan undulating and gyrating to some thunderous music.

There were only three more stops to go, but it seemed like eternity. My stop, which was also the last stop on the line, was the only one located outside the city, and so even now the carriages were like tins of sardine, sagging under the weight of who-knew-how-many people. It seemed that the PA system had suddenly malfunctioned, for the train slowed to a halt without any warning whatsoever. We had already arrived at the next stop. After several moments of confusion, almost everyone began bustling out, and an equal number of people replenished the orange seats in no time. I’d learnt not to bother about grabbing a seat before they came in; it really wasn’t worth the effort. People could be quite violent nowadays.

Amidst the ‘shoals of fish’ that had entered the carriage, there was this old lady that instantly caught my eye. Everyone else was also eyeing her curiously as nowadays it was rare for old folks to take the public train. One could say that it was rather dangerous. Indeed, she was jostled around for quite awhile before finally settling down near one of the doors – still standing, of course. She appeared to have a bad knee as she kept shifting her legs. She held an old-fashioned rattan basket, and her walking stick looked rather worn out.

But what struck me the most was the way she kept staring at me. I tried staring back at her but in the end I gave up and looked away. Most of the time her stare came across as rather blank, but then suddenly her eyes would well up with emotion and she would peer at me with such an intense and sorrowful gaze. I couldn’t make out what she was up to, but at the very least it felt rather odd having an old lady – shorter than everyone else – stare at you from amid a sea of bodies.

The next stop finally came and I slumped into the nearest seat as soon as the person stood up. I squeezed myself into as tight a ball as I could so as to minimize the physical damage that a large mass of moving people struggling to wheedle their way through the narrow doors could incur. By the time they were all gone, I could almost feel a slight breeze circulating through the carriages, as though even the train was breathing a sigh of relief.

I looked up to find that I was all alone in the carriage – except for the old lady. She too had taken a seat near her, though she still kept staring at me. Rather unnerved, I tried my best not to notice, and stared ahead of me. The constant blur from the opposite window soon gave me a headache, and so I ended up looking down at my lap for the rest of the journey.

The woman walked over to my side of the carriage as we both got down at the last stop. I hastened forward, not wanting to spend one more moment with her. Suddenly she said calmly from behind me, “Those shoes have seen much better days, I gather.”

Slowly I turned to face her. It almost felt like I was finally going against my arch nemesis. But the old lady merely smiled at me.

“I knew a girl very much like you once. She had a habit of torturing her shoes by bending them forward and backward with her toes. It looks to me as if your shoes have suffered the same fate for quite a while.”

I glanced down at my tattered sneakers. The left sole was half-detached from the shoe, and both sides had numerous holes dotted about. The fact that they were yellowish-orange didn’t help – it made me think of Swiss cheese. I looked back up at her. She was still smiling at me.

Then she drew out a nice pair of apple green sneakers from within her rattan basket. They were obviously brand new as there was some newspaper still stuffed into them. “Take them,” she said. “I’ve no one else to give them to.”

“Err…are you sure, grandma?” I finally found my voice again. “It really is okay. My shoes are still fine…” It was my turn to stare at her.

Slowly she shook her head. “No, take them. You’d make better use of them.” Her smile faded as she continued, “You see, my daughter just passed away from leukemia. This was supposed to be her birthday gift. She nearly made it past sweet sixteen.”

My eyes widened as I listened to the old lady’s story. I could not help but stare at the shoes as she put them slowly on the floor. By the time I looked back up at her, I found that tears had welled up in my eyes.

“I’m…so sorry…grandma…I didn’t know…” I whispered. My throat stuck together and I could barely speak. She was looking solemnly at me. A slight smile formed again from among the lines around her mouth.

“I’m not one to shower the dead with gifts that I know can never do them any good.” Her eyes were fixed on the pair of sneakers that I had by now gathered within my arms. “May they accompany you for a long time yet, and serve you well, just as I wished they could have done for my daughter.” Then with one last gaze into my eyes, she smiled sadly and walked away. I never saw her again after that. I never even got a chance to thank her.

A great coincidence as it may have seemed, but the sneakers she gave me fit perfectly around my feet, as if they had been intended for me in the first place. As I took my first few steps in my brand new pair of sneakers, I almost felt like I had become the old lady’s daughter, receiving of her tender love for me.

Time

Throughout the years, fantasy writers transcending various forms of media have constantly dabbled into the concept of time, so much so that time manipulation has more or less become a vital element involved in the process of world-building, especially those whose stories take place within more than one world. This is probably due to the fact that the exact nature of time and space is still not fully known to us, and as such, we as human beings tend to exercise our imagination in attempting to explain the aspects of time which are yet a mystery to us.

Concepts of time surfacing out of various fantasy works throughout literary history can generally be divided into a few categories. One popular concept is time that is parallel for all worlds. Meaning to say that there exists only one flow of time and all the different worlds and dimensions existing are subject to it. Examples of works that incorporate this concept is the famous manga series Inuyasha as well as the 2006 romance film The Lake House starring Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock. In the case of The Lake House though, the two “timeframes” are eventually merged into one, as they were originally just two years apart.

This concept of parallel time is rather believable, but only if the timeframes originate from two different worlds, and not from one same world possessing some link that connects the past of that world to its present. That is, two worlds possessing the same flow of time, but not two different periods in time of the same world. That is why in The Lake House, the fact that one same event generated two different impressions in the same person (having occurred in the past and is now happening as the “present” for the character living in the “past” timeframe) is proof enough that the concept is implausible.

There is also the concept of time where the flow of time varies from world to world. One classic example is The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis, where the characters repeatedly travelled from our world to the enchanted land of Narnia, only to discover upon their return that the flow of time had resumed from right where they left off upon exiting our world. As the characters themselves explained in the book, “One year in our world could be a thousand years in Narnia”.

However this concept also poses its own set of problems, as there is usually no way of determining a definite ratio between the two timeframes. In other words, one cannot say for sure that one day in this world is the same as two weeks in another, and that it will forever stay that way. But even if that were to be the case, it would still be impossible because it would mean that every single character that crosses worlds even once would have clocked their very own timeframe, which does not collaborate with the timeframe of either of the worlds. As such, there would be no way of recording the timeline of their life accurately.

The two concepts described above both merely apply to timeframes that only move forward at a constant pace (within one respective world, that is). But there exists various fantasy works which introduce the idea of being able to go backward and forward in time. The Time Machine by H. G. Wells is said to have pioneered this concept. In the novel, the protagonist had invented a time machine that enabled him to go forward in time. And so he arrived in 802,701 AD to find the world greatly changed and after some amazing adventures eventually managed to return home.

The problem of this concept of time has been repeatedly raised within the stories incorporating it themselves. That is, if one goes into the past and alters the course of events, how can its future (the present) remain exactly the same as it is “now”? Or if one goes into the future and sees things that would happen to oneself next time and comes back to prevent that from happening, how can the future he initially saw truly have been the future if it didn’t happen after all? Surely one can’t say that it did happen and yet didn’t. After all, the past affects everything about the future, and it is hard indeed to believe that something succeeding a certain chain of events could somehow be miraculously undone due to that particular chain of events having been altered.

And then there is the concept of frozen time. For example, in the fantasy series The Binding of the Blade by Christian author L. B. Graham, certain people possessed the special ability to enter torrim redara, that is frozen time. While within torrim redara, they could move about freely while their surroundings where frozen within one moment in time. One character in the story explained it this way “Time is like a river, flowing through history as a seemingly endless succession of moments…[we have been] granted the ability to climb up onto time’s shore on occasion…”

In that case, then even while moving in between time, a different level of time is still flowing, seeing that we can still measure how long we have been moving in that frozen time. That would mean that there are limitless levels of time, as one can always stop the time within the frozen time, and do the same for each level of frozen time and thus go on and on and on…

Unfortunately, in the end, given human beings’ current level of intellect and understanding, time manipulation is as yet only something printed on paper and film, merely existing within the boundless seas of our imagination. As for now, we can only leave the seemingly impossible task of twisting time as we know it, unto the hands of the Almighty God Himself.

Unwritten – Natasha Bedingfield

I am unwritten, can’t read my mind, I’m undefined
I’m just beginning, the pen’s in my hand, ending unplanned

Staring at the blank page before you
Open up the dirty window
Let the sun illuminate the words that you could not find

Reaching for something in the distance
So close you can almost taste it
Release your inhibitions
Feel the rain on your skin
No one else can feel it for you
Only you can let it in
No one else, no one else
Can speak the words on your lips
Drench yourself in words unspoken
Live your life with arms wide open
Today is where your book begins
The rest is still unwritten

I break tradition, sometimes my tries, are outside the lines
We’ve been conditioned to not make mistakes, but I can’t live that way

~~~~~~~~~~~

Even though the song is talking about something else, it’s making me feel a little guilty.

Please don’t ask why I wrote this.

~~~~~~~~

A cold blast came right at me and began feasting on my warmth the minute I stepped out the door. There was nothing I could do about it except wrap my jacket closer to that small parcel in my arms, which I did. In my other hand was the old umbrella that was just now tugging incessantly at my arm, rather like a soaring kite, and threatened to flip right over.

I gazed down the empty road and could barely detect any signs of life within the walls of the buildings that decked both sides of the mist-shrouded road. Apart from a few lit windows and vague noises of clanging pots and pans within, all was as silent as the land of the dead. That was until my boots began crunching on the loose pebbles and dried leaves that had spent the night out here in the cold. I winced at every noisy step I took, afraid I might be unknowingly snatching slumbering people from their carefree dreamlands to face once again the harsh realities of life.

The fact was, life had not been easy. Vacant jobs were rapidly diminishing as the inflation set in. People rushed desperately to secure any job they could lay their hands on, even unlawful ones. I reached the end of the eery road, and couldn’t help but clutch my fingers tighter around the parcel that I held. It was after all, my one last hope. Ever since I saw that tattered, hand-written sign lurking in one dirty corner of the window at the newspaper company, I had clung on to this last shred of evidence of all that I once was – all that I still can be – before this dark time arose, in desperate hope of a miracle. For, the very fact that the job hadn’t been snapped up the minute the sign had been put up could only have meant one thing: they were extremely picky about whom they chose.

The chill showed no signs of leaving with the dark, and my umbrella showed no signs of sobering up. I shuddered, partly at the thought of failing this job interview – my eighth. I had turned into the main row of shops and now I arrived at the foot of the bridge. Beyond it was the newspaper company. I drew a deep breath and stepped onto the stone bridge, and with each upward step I let my hope soar higher and higher. I thought of all the many years I worked as an office clerk, still more as a freelance editor; all of which proof of my efficiency and adequacy above many lay snuggled up between the folds of my brown paper parcel.

I reached the top of the bridge. I stopped and looked back at the weather-beaten road I had just treaded upon. Then my gaze shifted to that of my quivering reflection in the shimmery waters below, and I wondered whether I was doing the right thing. At last, I said a little prayer and embarked on my descent.

With each step downwards, hope and strength sapped out of me in far greater proportions than when I was collecting them in my hopeful ascent. By the time I arrived at the other end, I was in far worse shape than when I had started out. Yet, I told myself, I’d already come this far, I couldn’t possibly turn back now. Besides, there was no harm in trying. The truth was, I was too scared of failing yet another time; too scared to overcome yet another time the sheer despair and feeling of helplessness that always engulfed me when they gave me the news.

The steps leading toward the door were more intimidating than I had remembered. I feebly crawled up it. Halfway up I almost lost my balance when a middle-aged man with dark, cold eyes burst through the door and rushed past me. He gave me a stern glare, and was on his way. My resume, however, was not so lucky. It was flung out of my hands and had landed abruptly at the edge of the stairs, barely toppling off.

I hastened to pick it up, gently caressing it as if it were hurt. I do not know how I ever managed to finish the rest of the steps, but I did. I grasped the rusting doorknob and gently swung open the creaking door, struggling for a moment with my rickety umbrella.

A secretary was sitting beside the door busily typing away. There was no one else in the room, but I could faintly smell whiffs of cigar smoke drifting from an inner door somewhere among the musty shadows within. The secretary looked up at me and smiled inquiringly, waiting for me to state my business. I stammered an enquiry on that job vacancy sign I saw at the window, willing myself not to look towards the inner door.

“Oh, I’m sorry miss. But that job’s just been taken.”

‘  As Stanley made his way across the room, he tripped over an outstreched leg.

“Hey, watch it!” said an orange lump on a chair.

“You watch it,” muttered Stanley, too tired to care.

“What’d you say?” the Lump demanded.

“Nothin’,” said Stanley.

The Lump rose.  He was almost as big as Stanley and a lot tougher.  “You said something.”  He poked his fat finger in Stanley’s neck.  “What’d you say?”

A crowd quickly formed around them.

“Be cool,” said X-Ray.  He put his hand on Stanley’s shoulder.  “You don’t want to mess with the Caveman,” he warned.

“The Caveman’s cool,” said Armpit.

“I’m not looking for trouble,” Stanley said.  “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

The Lump grunted.

X-Ray and Armpit let Stanley over to a couch.  Squid slid over to make room as Stanley sat down.

“Did you see the Caveman back there?” X-Ray asked.

“The Caveman’s one tough dude,” said Squid, and he lightly punched Stanley’s arm.

Stanley leaned back against the torn vinyl upholstery.  Despite his shower, his body still radiated heat.  “I wasn’t trying to start anything,” he said.

The last thing he wanted to do after killing himself [digging holes] all day at the lake was to get in a fight with a boy called the Caveman.  He was glad X-Ray and Armpit had come to his rescue.

“Well, how’d you like your first hole?” asked Squid.

Stanley groaned and the other boys laughed.

“Well, the first hole’s the hardest,” said Stanley.

“No way,” said X-Ray.  “The second hole’s a lot harder.  You’re hurting before you even get started.  If you think you’re sore now, just wait and see how you feel tomorrow morning, right?”

“That’s right,” said Squid.

“Plus, the fun’s gone,” said X-Ray.

“The fun?” asked Stanley.

“Don’t lie to me,” said X-Ray.  “I bet you always wanted to dig a big hole, right?  Am I right?”

Stanley had never really thought about it before, but he knew better than to tell X-Ray he wasn’t right.

“Every kid in the world wants to dig a great big hole,” said X-Ray.  “To China, right?”

“Right,” said Stanley.

“See what I mean,” said X-Ray.  “That’s what I’m saying.  But now the fun’s gone.  And you still got to do it again, and again, and again.”

“Camp Fun and Games,” said Stanley.

“What’s in the box?” asked Squid.

Stanley had forgotten he had brought it.  “Uh, paper.  I was going to write a letter to my mother.”

“Your mother?” laughed Squid.

“She’ll worry if I don’t.”

Squid scowled.

Stanley looked around the room.  This was the one place in the camp where the boys could enjoy themselves, and what’d they do?  They wrecked it.  The glass in the TV screen was smashed, as if someone had put his foot through it.  Every table and chair seemed to be missing at least one leg. Everything leaned.

He waited to write the letter until after Squid had gotten up and joined the game of pool.

Dear Mom,

    Today was my first day at camp, and I’ve already made some friends.  We’ve been out on the lake all day, so I’m pretty tired out.  Once I pass the swimming test, I’ll get to learn how to water-ski.  I

He stopped writing as he became aware that somebody was reading over his shoulder.  He turned to see Zero, standing behind the couch.

“I don’t want her to worry about me,” he explained.

Zero said nothing.  He just stared at the letter with a serious, almost angry look on his face.

Stanley slipped it back into the stationery box.

“Did the shoes have red X’s on the back?” Zero asked him.

It took Stanley a moment, but then he realized Zero was asking about Clyde Livingston’s shoes [which he allegedly had stolen].

“Yes, they did,” he said.  He wondered how Zero knew that.  Brand X was a popular brand of sneakers.  Maybe Clyde Livingston made a commercial for them.

Zero stared at him for a moment, with the same intensity with which he had stared at the letter.

Stanley poked his finger through a hole in the vinyl couch and pulled out some of the stuffing.  He wasn’t aware of what he was doing.

“C’mon, Caveman, dinner,” said Armpit.

“You coming, Caveman?” said Squid.

Stanley looked around to see that Armpit and Squid were talking to him.  “Uh, sure,” he said.  He put the piece of stationary back in the box, then got up and followed the boys out to the tables.

The Lump wasn’t the Caveman.  He was.

He shrugged his left shoulder.  It was better than Barf Bag.  ‘

-Holes, Louis Sachar (pg 44-47)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ingenious.

There’s one thing I’ve realised though.   Once you’ve finished the book, you’ll know why the book cover shows what it shows.  But not before.  Almost all the time.  So don’t take the trouble guessing.

In many times of life, we look at ourselves and we begin to wallow in self-pity at how our lives have fallen; about how much more it could have been. How many times have we cried over things that could easily have been dealt with if only we wanted to? And how many times have we stopped to cry for those other than ourselves? Even upon such conviction, we still carry on crying about how selfish we have been, and after crying ourselves to sleep we wake up the next morning feeling so good we forgot all about the plegde we made the night before about caring for others.  It’s as if nothing ever happened.

But in many ways, often so beautiful and subtle, God gently leads us back onto His path, the path of righteousness and selflessness.  Over and over again He shows us how fortunate we have been to have known Him and yet lived.   How is it thus inevitable that we do not value life unless we see it slipping away before our very eyes?  Is mankind thus moulded that it is impossible to live every single second of our lives as if it were our very last?

In moments like this, one is not only reminded of God’s supreme sovreignity over all, but also of His immeasurable patience in constantly guding us along the golden path He has laid before us, no matter how many times we sidetrack.  How far have we fallen from His image!

I’ve come to realise that words can never be enough, because life in this world is so much more than words can ever contain.  How can words even begin to describe the the experiences God has put into our everyday lives?  If even we, “intelligent beings” may we be, can experience such vast, complex strings of emotions such as joy, fear, anger and despair and so many various mixes of them that no adjective could ever suffice, what more God who is infinitely more complex and higher than us – that is how great God is.  I begin to realize that the only way to truly know God, past even what we can learn by looking at all other things He has given us, is to look within ourselves, and find Him within us.  The only way to truly understand an artist is by looking at his paintings, what more so it is with us and God.

One can’t help but feel a slight sense of pride. I’ve often wondered though. What makes a good report different from a bad one? The words used are generally similar, and it certainly has nothing to do with the length. Mull on it however long, in the end one can’t deny the mysterious power of words, and how manipulating them can make a whole lot of difference.

A Poem in Three Parts

There is actually a skit to go with this, but let’s see if it can stand without its context.

Disunity…

dNA…
A place for shaping hearts and minds
For Christ in whom we bind.
But square cubes fit not into round holes
To meet different people that oppose
Who we are, how we act
Bringing us together would really need some tact.
But behold, all hope is not yet lost
See who has come to bear the cost!

Unity…

Lo! What a transformation!
The still come to animation
And with louder ones subdued
All manner of peace… imbued
Friendships spark
And barriers seek the dark
The Holy Spirit has done its beauty
So let’s sing in perfect unity
To the one true God
Who has brought us together, praise the Lord!

Conclusion

Indeed, what wonders God has done
If only we would let Him come
Thus we are as you now see
Bound in perfect unity
And that’s from us
Thank you one, thank you all!

“A book is not merely a compilation of thoughts, but the reflective narrative of life.  And because no single life is ever lived in entire isolation, every author is dependent upon others for both their support and their input.”  -Rev. Edmund Chan (Growing Deep in God)