Archive for April, 2008


Fire & Water Book

Edmond Jabès: “The book is as old as fire and water”.

I title this experience logbook as the “Fire and Water” because I truly feel that my emotional feeling fluctuated in the second term. I’m sometimes on fire and sometimes feel extremely cool. My mind and my emotion cannot keep steady. I feel really stressful, contradicting, confused, problematic, and moody in these several months. Therefore, I used this concept of “fire & water” to make this book.

The approach of this experience logbook would be like a textual and visual diary. This half of the book would be called “water” book. Each page of this book is written a one-day diary. This is the continuity of the last experience logbook “Golden memory”. This part of the book contains mainly the text. Comparatively, the second half of this book is called “fire” book. A picture would be on each page, which echoes with the text on the exact page on “water” book. The “fire” book mainly contains visual images.



From the Rabbi’s Dream Book

昨日從 “the book, spiritual instrument” 書中看到的一個關於書的故事,很是浪漫夢幻,作漫畫或 motion graphic 劇本一流。

From the Rabbi’s Dream Book
David Meltzer

At the end of a sentence. The dot. A stop. A blank circle. Its edges rainbow like petroleum like linoleum like bubbles blown out of plastic hoops. The period. The end. A stop.

Black round sphere on the page. Black dot holding all the alphabets and words inside itself.

Did you ever see the angel who wears a curved and no doubt jewel-powered device of glass and metals looped about into mad-scientist spires and gyres and all of it hooked to transistor batteries worn around his arms like snakes? He puts his mouth on a tuba mouthpiece and blows four notes which you can see moving up the tubing, turning into one black dot rushing up through loops and hoops of metals and glass. The black dot goes up to the top shaped like an upside-down icecream brass cone and out it goes. Into the air. Straight to the open book’s blank page and it lands right in the white center.

Black dot in the center of a page surround by white. The period. The end. A stop.

Another angel who wasn’t in the room before appears through the roof in a flurry of splashing light like overflowing fireworks. And lands before the large open book and shuts his eyes and slowly lets his wings fold together. Light remaining from his flight falls onto the floor where it dissolves like snowflakes.

—I am the Angel of the Alphabet, he says to the open book.

The book says nothing.

But the black dot widens in the page’s center and opens like a yawn like an apple sliced into many sudden wedges. And the Angel of the Alphabet seems pleased and flutters his wings like a helicopter and arises to the ceiling and soaks through it like sunlight.

Period. The end. A stop. The room is empty again. Its walls as white as blank pages in the book. There is nothing in the room. Period. Except the book which is on a round table made from sturdy wood and engraved and carved with stars, moons, alphabets, hieroglyphs, petroglyphs, runes going around the edges of the table.

Letter into letter into letter. The black dot splinters into black shapes of lovely designs. Flowers quickly blossoming. People walking. Each letter as it forms itself looks like something remembered from life. An ox, a coathook, a dancer, a room, a staff, a pitchfork, a stem, a seed, a weed.

Letters appear on the page and meet each other to form words. They stand in groups and sing. They discuss each other’s meanings. They remember and they forget.

A black angel spread its black wings through a wall of the rooms and enters. He is happy to see the page of the books alive with his blackness. His shadow is like a letter on white wall.

A white angel, entirely white, spreads its wings and enters through the wall as if breaking through water after diving deep into a lake and then pushing up and up to where sunlight wobbles and shatters on the water.

The two angels stand side by side before the book. Their black and white shadows.

And we know that the black angel shuts his eyes as if asleep and all the letters and words float to him and he inhales them as if smelling a stew. And we know he turns an eye-blinking white from head to toe, dazzling.

And we know how the white angel smiles to see the book page suddenly empty of marks. And we are ready when he shuts his eyes and the pages of the book turn faster than a cartoon and become a small snowstorm which the white angel inhales and, to our amazement, turns a magnificent black.

And later, when the sun and moon and stars have turned inside out into letters and pages and words and books, and a century of amazing seconds has gone, and it’s hard to know what’s happening, but nobody’s worried, a comforting voice says to you or me or to nobody in particular that the black dot is the planet of the alphabet. The alphabet atom. All alphabets live in harmony in the period. The stop. The end.

And the blank page, white and empty, is the alphabet’s sky.

And sometimes what has been said seems to be true. The letters and words are stars in the white sky of the page. Or the white page is part of a huge letter with dots and spots of black sky poking through it.

And now what do you say if we start all over again?

And the end of the sentence. Dot. Stop. Black circle. Beginning again.


Hei Shing

書就是… A Book is…


A piece of paper reflects not only time but also space. Books are formed by binding papers together to become containers of words that serve as a reservoir as well as a spring of wisdom.

April 2008

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