A few years back when I visited the American National Archive, I saw some masterpieces of Chinese calligraphy which were actually the handwritten offcial documents of the Qing Dynasty (1644-1911) that were taken and stored in the US. I was really amazed, exclaiming "Aren't they in print?" but the answer is no. They are 100% real handwriting done by the secretarial clerks to the high officials or the officials themselves. As we all know, in those days, an offcial that could become an official ultimately was based on his academic merits, which of course included the skill of writing. But looking at intelligentias today, some may have good writing skills but lack other knowledge, or simply they are not as comprehensively developed as their predecessors in the Qing Dynasty or the Republic of China period.Here I would like to present the work of my friend, who left me with this work when we departed each other from a meeting of literary exchanges. It is a poem of the Tang Dynasty (618-907), the meaning of which I haven't got to the bottom because it was written in the ancient Chinese language, haha, so you could enjoy it if you love Chinese language and cultures.

Recently I nearly had one of my work of art sold to a lover. The painting is very nice, in which there is a lady in Chinese style dress who is playing a flute and it is very vivid, showing the beauty of the traditional Chinese females, either in posture or in manners. So I am very convinced the buyer was highly impressed. But why no deal? That guy is a businessman and he said all his money has been tied up in his business and that now what he can offer is the wine worth 400 thousand yuan. He showed me the goods, which are in a good quantity. Perhaps I could sell them at a low price to get the cash I want, but first I had to find a warehouse to hold all these things, then I could find in the market or through intermediary the buyer of the wine.Maybe it is a fraud, and I have no technical means to confirm the wine is genuine or fake, because they cannot be identified by the brand or tags only. There are too many low quality and fake goods in our country.Some may doubt the quality of my work or wish to have a look, but as it is a secret, I will not disclose it here because I worry that some people with ulterior motive might copy my brain and hand child.

On the internet there are some busybodies who list the names of some TV dramas about Anti-Japanese War,blaming them to be exaggerating the details and to fool the audience.However, no smoke without fire. Looking back from the old papers, one could easily find that such blown up stories of the same theme were not scarce many years ago when there was no internet or other equally convenient communication available.Even I myself did such foolish thing during my earlier days, here I would like to share the picture I drew describing how a woman soldier of our heroic 8th Route Army killed a Jap fighter in a bayonet struggle.Very childish to some degree, but the feeling behind the work is authentic.

Today I learned the news that one member of Democratic Party who is also a congresswoman will join the battle for next presidency of the United States. But with her predecessor Hilary Clinton losing a few years back without really knowing the reason, her efforts to challenge the billionaire are most probably brushed aside into the waste basket. That also reminds me the local election in my neighborhood a while back. When there were two candidates given on the public notice and on the vote, some unintelligent guys still wanted to make a challenge to the authority. So a new name of candidate was provided when the workmen collecting the votes from the box began to announce the result. The man got only two votes, yes, but he became a laughing stock, because everybody knew one vote was from himself, the other from his dear wife. I myself as a legal voter, also did some trick or had some fun by proposing a new candidate on my vote ticket, who was currently on penalty term but still qualifying to be nominated. She was also made fun of after the event, but she was innocent.

The posts in Moments of WeChat, our Chinese version of instant messenger on smart mobile phones, recently were about an ear-pleasing song, The Wind Rises, with very nice melody though the lyric beyond the understanding of usual listeners. The music TV accompanying this song is done in cartoon or manga, with scenes of war that I assumed to be those seen in China’s TV dramas set in the anti-Japanese war period. Turns out it is the work of the Japanese great master of manga Miyazaki Hayao. Whether it is about the love of two young people or the story of a scientist who made the airplane for his country, I am not sure. What impressed me most was the heroine being a painter and the hero a mechanic, both of the jobs I like from the bottom of my heart. I remember very well that when I was a child my father took me to a training school attached to the Worker’s Palace for receiving training of drawing and painting. But my interest was more in the wheels or anything that can turn a high speed, even a turning electric fan could make me often wonder what was the force behind it to make it turn so fast. I also spent much of my spare time or even the time of class in thinking, drawing and making something like that. A self-made electric fan with two blades was finally put into motion with some batteries. That made me very happy and my parent very annoyed because they found me to have wasted the time and money that could have been used for other purposes. They had me to travel alone at my very young age to that training school on each Sunday. At that time, safety was not the problem for parents to worry but the scarce transport made the travel not easy to a distance that can be reached within a short while under today’s condition. Departing as if for a long trip of no return and traveling alone, I felt being abandoned by my parents and was very saddened. I have a lot to say, but now I don’t know what to begin with, so I decide to listen to the above themed song again and try to get some comfort from the melodious peace of mind.

It was a while back, yeah, quite a long while, when Internet was something non-existing even in our wildest dreams.Having read a notice in a trade magazine of fine arts calling for paiting works to be exhibited and evaluated for award, I began my strenuous painting of copying a masterpiece and lasted for many days and nights. On completion, I loved my work so much as if it was my son and that I was reluctant to send it to the organizer. However, knowing that if I did not make this known to the world by sending it to the event organizer I would lose the opportunity to become a celebrity, I decided to hand over my blood "son" to a stranger institution that was far far away from my home. The big problem was money to cover the expense for delivering. The finished painting was a huge one, my father and I carried it framed out of the room I lived in and downstairs onto a tricycle we hired from the street. It was quite a scene and amazed all onlookers because nobody in that neighborhood consisting of poor and working class people had never seen such nice things before with their own eyes. It also took great troubles in handling it in the post office, the only channel that this great work might be sent out of the city. I still remembered very well and still feel guilty till today the distorted expression on the face of my parents when they had to give out to the post officer a few bank notes that I knew it was an amount more than the monthly expense for a family of six. I was confident I would get an award due to my confidence on my skills or for no reason at all or it was simply the natural reaction of a dreamer. I might have become a Leonardo Da Vinci or got a little richer if everything had been as it was expected, but I never got any response whatever and it is a pity up till now I still have no idea where my work is. It is a pain, and most probably a permanent pain to me.And if you happen to have seen this picture or know where it is, please let me know or ask the owner to return it to me.