RIP Venus

Returning from a long holiday five days ago, we arrived at our gate and was delighted to see Venus plod, ever so slowly towards us. She wagged her wee little tail tiredly and stood unsteadily for a while before retiring to her corner.

A few weeks earlier, her hind legs had collapsed unexpectedly. It was painful to see her drag herself around with fore legs weakened by age. We fed her some chicken liver and fresh milk everyday and the strength returned to her feeble legs.

She's 15 years 7 months old. Where did the time go?

I wasn't particularly fond of her when I first saw her at the local SPCA. At eight months old, she was restless, unruly and a handful. Everything changed after I returned from a three weeks holiday many years ago to be greeted by her unrestrained joy.

You cannot help responding warmly to unconditional love. In time, she grew to be the perfect companion to one and all.

When Xena (right) joined us four years ago, Venus was quick to establish her superiority as the pack leader. We see a submissive Xena respecting an older Venus. Earlier this year, the role was reversed. We did not see it coming. Venus, old and tired submitting gradually to Xena. The vagaries of life. The proud and haughty eventually surrendering to the ravages of time. Power and glory is impermanent.

Xena

Three days ago, she was officially bedridden. She rejected all food and liquid, panting occasionally, otherwise still. The fire had gone out of her although the brightness in her eyes remained. We cleaned and chatted with her twice a day, flipping her over to her side to prevent bed sores, not knowing if this made any difference to a dog. Two days ago, I patted her head and spoke to her as if nothing had happened. I reminded her of Grandma who had loved her unconditionally so many years ago. "I know you are tired, Venus. It's okay to be tired. Remember Grandma? Remember how she loved you? Go find her, Venus. Go find Grandma." She looked at me. She blinked

Three days ago, she assumed this position and remained thus until her death.

When I spoke to her yesterday, I noticed that her eyes were tiredly bright. (Footage: right) She could still discern. Night came and all in the family returned from their various engagements. They greeted her warmly. She wagged her tail woefully. Dad patted her head last night. "If you are tired, Venus, go in peace."

And she went, in peace, in the early hours of this morning. We who knew her, loved her dearly.

You will be missed. Rest in peace, dear Venus.

The Man With The Scissors.

"Let me tell you two things you don't know about Shih Huang Ti", said The-Man-With-The-Scissors as he grinned.

I looked up at the mirror, gazing at the reflection of the man standing behind me, a pair of scissors in his right hand, a little comb grasped between the fingers of the other.

"Do you know Shih Huang Ti?" The man asked. Unable to contain his impatience, he blurted out. "He was the emperor who united China."

Encouraged by my smile, The-Man-With-The-Scissors, the tool of his trade frozen in mid air, began. "Not many people know his real name. Do you?" 

A name came to mind - Ying Zheng. However, I could not be sure because ancient Chinese were known to have all sorts of names. There was the personal name, the courtesy name, the official name, and the name they get after they kick the bucket. Not entirely sure which name he meant, I shrugged and beckoned him to continue.

"His real name is Kublai Khan." said The-Man-With-The-Scissors .

"No!" I exclaimed in utter disbelief, looking up at the mirror. The scissors froze.

"Yes! That's his real name. Very few people knew that he was the son of Genghis Khan."

"But they were from different timeline."  I protested.

The scissors resumed its merry snipping as the man explained, "It was written in my history books in school. I may have forgotten much but this is the one fact I remembered."

I looked at the man in the mirror. He was in his mid fifties so there's a whole lot of years between his school books and the scissors now in his hands.

"I think his real name is Ying Zheng. He was probably one of the princes of the Zhou kingdom before he became the king of Qin. Kublai Khan belonged to the Yuan Dynasty which came much later in the timeline.", I explained.

"Oh no! You are mistaken. He was not of Manchurian descent. The Manchurians came later."

"Qin and Qing were two separate dynasties, you know?"

The-Man-With-The-Scissors dismissed my argument with a decisive mid-air scissor snip. "Anyway! ... he was also the one who built the Great Wall."

I looked at the scissors poised over my head, it's pointed end at the start of a trajectory which bodes me ill. History or what we know of it was written by the victors. And where's the harm in letting Shih Huang Ti be Kublai Khan just for today? 

Then again, was he the one who built the Great Wall? Nah... Consolidated several smaller walls into the great one, perhaps. He should not claim credit for building the wall in its entirety. And Kublai Khan? Wasn't he the grandson of Genghis Khan instead of the son?

I nodded agreeably at the man in the mirror as he gathered his thoughts and expounded on his views regarding little green men watching us from clandestine quarters right here, in our neck of the woods.

Brush Calligraphy

Brush calligraphy is awesome! Picture the fluidity of the brush as it oiled its way across the medium leaving in its wake, a meandering stream of black ink contrasting against the garish whiteness of the background.

Never mind that you haven't the vaguest clue what they meant. (That's a mouse in the brushwork above in case you're wondering.) Works of art are intended to be more appreciated than understood.

In recent months, the transition from Tamoxifen to Arimidex (prescribed by my oncologist) brought forth a new issue. While Tamoxifen was the cause of the elevated liver enzyme, which had since been regulated, Arimidex came with arthritis. Bending my fingers are difficult and writing with a pen became an issue. A major distraction was needed. I took up brush calligraphy. This meant that some basic understanding of the art is in order.

THE FOUR TREASURES OF BRUSH CALLIGRAPHY

THE BRUSH

Brushes are generally made from animal hair. Brush handles are commonly constructed from bamboo, but special brushes may have handles of sandalwood, jade, carved bone or ivory. Mine, alas! -  Mine is probably plain bamboo painted brown and black 

Modern brushes are primarily white goat hair, black rabbit hair, yellow weasel hair, or a combination mix. Each type of hair has a specific ink capacity, giving distinct brush strokes. Different brushes are used for different styles of calligraphy and writing.

Brushes are classified as soft, mixed or hard. Hair is laboriously sorted by softness, hardness, thickness, and length, then bundled for specific uses.

My first issue with the brush was "split" ends, for want of a better word. The brushwork from split ends are untidy and sloppy. Not knowing how this problem should be solved, I held my inkstick and glided it down the length of the hair, turning the brush at the same time until the spilt ends merged into a single pointed mass. Someday, I will find a better way.

A single strand of hair sticking out from the rest is another sign of sloppiness. Eric, a family friend told me that strands of hair sticking out should be cut instead of pulled off so as not to loosen the bunch of hair held together in the brush. That made a lot of sense.

INKSTICK

The ink-stick is an artificial ink developed during the Han dynasty. These first writing inks were based on naturally occurring minerals like graphite and vermilion.

Modern ink-sticks are generally made of soot which, after collection are mixed with glue. Higher quality ink-sticks also use powdered spices and herbs, adding to the aroma and providing some protection to the ink itself. The glue, soot, and spice mixture is then pressed into shape and allowed to dry. This process can take 6 weeks, depending on an ink-stick's dimensions.

The best ink sticks are fine grained and have a light, slightly ringing sound when tapped. They are often decorated with poems, calligraphy, or bas relief, and painted. These particular articles are highly collectable, and often acquired like stamps.

Ink from bottles are available in stores selling stationery and books but I must reiterate that nothing beats the feeling of antiquity that came from grinding an inkstick against the stone and watching or feeling the ink gain its viscosity.

Since me old fingers were all arthritic and so forth, I dropped - no! The ink-stick slipped from my fingers and glided into the pool of black ink inside the inkstone. This was bound to happen as the inkstick grew smaller from all that grinding. I let it sit in the pool of ink. In about a week, what remained of the inkstick had softened into a gooey black glob.

... which stank to high heaven! So leaving the inkstick in the pool of ink? Bad idea!

INKSTONE

The inkstick is ground in a pool of water contained inside the inkstone. As the grinding progresses, the water turned black and its viscosity increases. This is how the ink for brush calligraphy is prepared. Different shades of grey came from the different viscosity of the ink.

Ink was first prepared using a mortar and pestle, but with the advent of inksticks this method slowly vanished. The stone used is generally of a relatively fine whetstone type.

The earliest known inkstones dated back to the Han dynasty. The production of inkstones reached its zenith in the Tang and Song dynasties with inkstones becoming extremely intricate works of art. 

My interest in inkstone began with a documentary I watched on the Discovery Channel. A retired Chinese military minister was interviewed after he donated his prized possession constituting rare inkstones to a certain museum.

At this point, it should be noted that in a typical archaic royal court, the ministers serving the emperor are basically grouped into two broad categories, the scholars, and the military men. In the forbidden city, for example, each category entered the palace through different doors. 

Military officials are not typically known to show much interest for brush paintings which is more a scholarly pursuit so the retired minister's prized inkstones amazed me.

Having retired, and not knowing how else to occupy his time, the retired minister took up brush calligraphy and discovered a whole new world of art. He began his collection of brushes and inkstones and one day while at an antique store, he picked up a rare red inkstone for RMB200. This once belonged to a court official during the Ming Dynasty.  Is that cool, or what?

XUAN PAPER

Before the age of paper, bamboo slips and silks were used as writing material. When a team from Beijing set out on a mission to measure the actual length of the Great Wall, bamboo slips (on which historical records were kept) were found along parts of the wall. The information thus derived helped historians to piece together missing parts of ancient history.

Xuan paper (which I had only recently discovered) are soft, fine-textured, moth resistant, with a high tensile strength, and remarkable longevity. It was claimed to have a reputation for lasting "1,000 years". The quality of the paper depends on the processing methods used to produce it. Paper may be unprocessed, half processed or processed. The processing determines how well ink or paint is absorbed into the fiber of the paper, as well as the stiffness of the paper itself. Unprocessed papers are very absorbent and quite malleable, whereas processed papers are far more resistant to absorption and are stiffer.

I have ordered some unprocessed Xuan paper. In time, I may be able to tell you more about it.

Beijing - Day 5 (Part 4)

We were taken on an excursion of the Water Town in a Storage battery car which dropped us at the cable car station. Unfortunately, the cable car service was suspended due to strong winds. The cable car would have taken us up to the seventh beacon tower. The Simatai Great Wall was described as "the most dangerous". It is 5.4 km long with 35 beacon towers.

 

Entrance to Simatai Great Wall

This is where I stopped. Hikers descending the steps advised me not to continue. I captured this picture and was completely satisfied with my accomplishment. I have climbed part of the initial steps going up to the first beacon tower of the Simatai Great Wall, or something along those lines. Details are not important, are they?

My future plans include a second visit to Gubei Water Town where I hope to catch the cable car to the 7th beacon tower and take it up from there. (*chuckle* ~~~ There won't be much to "take up" if I know me, which I do.) The Capital Museum is worth a second visit because there are simply so much to see and learn. The Summer Palace and the Temple of Heaven required further exploration and we'll have to determine if the Forbidden City was indeed a claustrophobic experience. In the meantime, I need to nurse this flu and nose bleed, which came because "Beijing is dry," said Mr Fever.

At the Beijing airport, Mr Fever and another elderly traveler was sicker than ever. They swallowed some paracetamols a few hours before the flight so as not to cause the entire group to be quarantined. 

Beijing - Day 5 (Part 3)

The road to Gubei was long but Ms Cao (the Han Chinese with Manchurian status) kept us entertained. She told us how it was to grow up in a Communist era, the wants that were denied, the hopes that were dashed. While most in our group thought her stories were inappropriate I demurred. A visit to any destination is not complete if it did not include an understanding of its culture or its way of life.

She also told stories of the anomalies in her job. 

"In recent years, more of our people are traveling out of the country. There was this time I took a local group to Japan. One of the traveler is a naive rural woman traveling out of her country for the first time. In Japan, she picked up a packet of snacks from the supermarket. - "These biscuits are delicious, says she. Cat brand." - Cat Food!"

Ms Cao chortled.

"And there was this other time when a young woman was asked to present a passport sized photograph for the application of a passport. She had a nice picture taken of herself standing from head to toe with the appropriate background color. The picture was passport-sized, she argued and therefore suitable."

Ms Cao chuckled. Clearly she loved her job. Meanwhile, the scenery outside the van had transformed. We have reached our destination. Traces of the Simatai Great Wall could be seen along the distant hills.

Outline of the Simatai Great Wall along the distant hills.

GUBEI WATER TOWN is located below the SIMATAI GREAT WALL. The water town is essentially a theme park with hotels and recreational facilities. There was nothing ancient about this town.

These lions looked like the ones at the Marco Polo Bridge.

Beijing - Day 5 (Part 1)

Day 5 took us out of Beijing, past the Ming Tombs to the Glass Skywalk at Qinglianggu.

 

The Glass Sky Walk wasn't completed and building materials were strewn all over the place. Gravel debris had not been cleared. The cable car took us up the slope to a spot where further hiking up steep slopes finally get you to the Glass Sky Walk. The wind was strong and our cable car swung precariously.

Stone steps from the cable car station leading up to the Sky Walk

One of several water falls.

Beijing - Day 4

THE SUMMER PALACE

Dowager Cixi's Quarters

Beijing - Day 3

The little girl who stood behind us amongst the audience at the Acrobatic Performance last night was a torn in the flesh. She was as restless as a turkey in a freezing Turkish bath. Her mother was a young adult of about 20 or less. The grandparents looked like rural folks out for an exciting day in the city. All three were staring intently into the little screen on their phones which were recording the articulation of the acrobats on the stage below. Meanwhile, the little girl kicked our seats, struck our shoulder and occasionally, our heads. The mother yelled at her without taking her eyes off the little screen on the phone. It was imperative that the recording is not interrupted by any trivial issues. We turned around slowly to give the little monster a cold silent stare. It calmed her nerves.

This morning, another little girl of about the same age sat at the breakfast table in the hotel with a younger brother and her parents. The father, a man in his late thirties placed a bowl of soup before the girl, who sulked handsomely, refusing to accept anything the father was going to offer that morning due to some unknown injurious word the man must have uttered. She lifted the bowl of soup with a good measure of defiance and dumped it on her left while the father went to the buffet spread to pick up more food. The mother joined the children at the table with a plate of noodles. The little girl complained as she sulked, sulked as she complained. The mother uttered a few words, too inaudible to be picked up by me at the table behind them. The little girl picked up the rejected bowl of soup from her left, placed it before herself and started scooping it into her mouth, hurts and sulks forgotten.

There you go. Two mothers, two different outcome.

Mr Fever, looking feverish joined our table at breakfast  (which I thought was inappropriate in view of the legion of germs under his command, - but who's going to tell him to go away anyway?) A hasty brekkie was the better option so we had our quick fill and left for the little van. Today's destination is the MARCO POLO BRIDGE also known as LUGUO.

Ms Cao (the Manchurian tour guide) was in control. Mr Fever was feverish  (remember?) so he was left to his own devices. Dinner this night will include the Beijing Roast Duck and everyone was looking forward to it. First, we were scheduled for a compulsory visit to the Tea Factory.

The girls at the tea factory were young, pretty and aggressive. After their gentle cajoles, we bought some tea. One of the sales attendant got into a nasty argument with Madam Malindo who had declined to purchase any. As their unpleasant argument died down, the girl attending to us knelt down before me to gently rub my knees. I was taken aback by this invasion of privacy. Are they in such dire straits that they had to resort to this? The gentle cajoling recommenced and before a proper sneeze could make itself heard, we were in possession of another four compressed pu-erh  bricks giving us a total of six.

Just as we were about to leave with our purchases, the knee-rubber approached me for the final kill.

"Top up to ten bricks," she began. I did not wait to hear more.

Beijing - Day 2 (Part 2)

THE DOWAGER'S GREEN CUBE Earlier this year, I came across a documentary featuring Beijing's fermented tofu. It was said that although it stank to high Heaven, it's effect on the palette was heavenly. The late Dowager Cixi (Qing Dynasty) loved it and not knowing what it was called decided thereon to call it "THE GREEN CUBE". And by this name it has been called since.

Not knowing how or where to find the factory where The Green Cube was produced, I thought I'd give the supermarket a try. And right there on the shelf by a corner,  I found it! It was wrapped in layers and carefully packed into my suitcase to contain its stench. Right about now, this jar of green cube is sitting in my fridge while I  figure out what's to be done to and with it.

I'll keep you posted.

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Beijing - Day 2 (Part 1)

While the rest of the group were dashing about taking pictures from strategic spots, I approached Miss Cao, the Manchurian tour guide.

"May I take a look at your hand?" I asked, pointing at her hand.

"Yes, yes." she said as she extended them.

"A genealogy student once told me that one of the genetic traits of a Han Chinese is this line above the elbow. You said you were Manchurian. How is it that you have this distinct line here? (Members of the group who stood nearby helped in the above translation.)

She smiled. Withdrawing her hands, she explained that her ancestor was a Han Chinese who were given Manchurian status by the emperor back then for a service rendered to the dynasty.

At this point in the conversation, everyone in the group studied their hands intently. Madam Malindo extended hers to ask if she too, had the aforesaid line. (There were none.)

"My eyes are not too good today. Perhaps you could ask someone else."  I said as I circumvented the embarrassment of having to tell her that she could well be a tribal princess from the northern barbaric region.

Ms Cao took a quick look, pointed at somewhere near the fold and said that the line was right there.

"Are you sure you saw the line? Are you saying that I'm a Han Chinese?"

"Ya, ya ya"!"

"Gah! I'm not even a Han Chinese!"

Miss Cao scooted out of sight as Miss Malindo told me the history of her people.

"My ancestor left China a long time ago during the reign of the previous dynasty. They were cast out when the emperor extended his border. On his dying bed, my grandfather told us that we may settle in any part of the world except China. Our history, who we were, were hidden inside a locked chest. This chest was burned by my mother after the Japanese invasion. To this day, my mother was blamed for the loss of our identity."

The story intrigued me so we explored her option. She was not Han nor Manchurian. Judging by her love for mutton, she could be ~~~ gosh! Anything! I'm thinking ... physique wise, maybe Mongolian.

Part 2

Beijing - Day 1 (Part 2)

For reasons best known to the driver of the little van, we were picked up at the Olympic Village and dropped outside the NATIONAL CENTER FOR THE PERFORMING ARTS. It was a long walk from here to the crowded TIANANMEN SQUARE.

Ms Cao (the Manchurian tour guide) directed us to a group of professional photographers who aligned us for a group picture. For a certain sum, we get our picture in a booklet with information about TIANANMEN SQUARE and the FORBIDDEN CITY. I wondered why they bothered. In this time and age, most travelers were carrying digital cameras and selfie sticks.

To think that this was the spot where students were massacred all those years ago. I could not even remember why they were massacred. For a square this big, there must have been some confusion at the time of the incident. Innocent bystanders, those who were at the wrong place at the wrong time may not even see it coming. Then there were questions about them who funded those student rebels. Gah! Politics!

After the TianAnMen Entrance

Into the Forbidden City

On both sides of the main entrance were two other smaller entrances. Military officials entered from the left while civil officials entered from the right. As the main entrance were crowded with tourists shoving each other to gaze at the Imperial Throne, (perhaps a queue system is what's missing here), we headed for the right entrance. After this, you're just looking at more of the same.

All gathering to peek at the Imperial Throne. (Right)

If you think you can touch the Imperial Throne, you're grossly mistaken. Above shot is taken from the doorway which was cordoned off.

Ceramic basins containing water for fire fighting.

Bolted entrance to parts of the Imperial Palace which were more than forbidden.

Having seen the Forbidden City for what it is, my thoughts drifted to what it was. In all its implied grandeur, the forbidden city is no more than a giant gilded cage filled with pathetic exotic birds. Walls and gates, bolted doors kept the commoners out. It also kept the exalted in. I could sense a certain panic washing over me as I looked at the forbidding walls, the narrowness of the passages between those walls, the breathlessness of a trapped animal and the agonies of those contained within. I thought about Pu Yi (the last emperor). Terrible time to be handed the Mandate of Heaven, I thought. And my mind went to the ancient dudes who peered at the stars in the night sky, fingers caressing their goatee absentmindedly, then abruptly stared in alarm at a busy thumb as it tapped four other fingers to derive at a dire revelation. These are the astrologists forewarning how the Dowager Cixi was going to bring the downfall of the Qing dynasty, or how the Empress Wu Zetian was going to rule after the passing of Li Shimin. (Tang Dynasty) Was it just happenstance or did those ancient men foretold what was coming just by looking at the stars. Are the stars documenting our future and our past? I was glad to step away from the imposing walls and its ancient hidden secrets.

JINGSHAN PARK is something else. This is where the Emperor and his favorite concubine strolled among the peonies when the occasion called for it.

Right about here, Ms Cao advised us to put our cameras away. We have reached the spot where the last Ming Emperor hung himself from a nearby tree as rebels and the Manchurian invaders conspired to capture the Imperial Throne. The Ming Dynasty met its demise. The Ming Princess Changping had her left arm severed. This later became the inspiration for a renown Cantonese Opera

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